


Hope and a Future

by Aednat_the_Fourteenth



Series: Aramis Prequel [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Act 2 is over, Adventure, Angst, Gen, Prequel, Rated T to be safe (and free), So many OCs, The other characters will show up eventually, Three Acts, Young Adult Aramis, Young Aramis, h/c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aednat_the_Fourteenth/pseuds/Aednat_the_Fourteenth
Summary: When he runs away from home in search of his beloved Isabelle, seventeen-year-old René renounces his father's name to become Aramis. This is the tale of his first adventures, of the first women he'll love and the first friends he'll fight for. This is the tale of how he'll overcome his grief to grow into one of the King's bravest Musketeers... and find a family of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

"You won't shoot."

The man's voice was steady, but you could see his eyes growing a little wide and his breathing quickening. Sweatdrops beaded on his forehead and that had nothing to do with the heat inside the bakery. For a brief moment, René wondered what **he** looked like. He had come here to confront his future father-in-law, not knowing what he would do if the man didn't confess where he had taken Isabelle, yet determined not to leave without an answer. It had not been supposed to go come to this, but the stubborn baker had obstinately kept his secret. Worse: he'd claimed that all was René's fault.

His father always told him that his emotions would be his undoing. He hated to prove the old man right, but had honestly no idea of how he was supposed to react when, five days after having lost his baby – five days he'd already spent blaming himself without needing any help – his beloved's father had accused him, without batting an eyelid, of being the one who brought misfortune on his house.

"My daughter was a good girl," he'd said, without raising his voice, but the anger tangible enough. "She was smart, cautious and pious to the bone! She could have married an honest man and been a respected mother. You took all her dreams from her when you seduced her, and I will not let you harm her ever again."

René had wanted to protest, but couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't some truth in the accusations. He had not actively seduced Isabelle. She was her own woman, perfectly able to think for herself, and that was one of the reasons why he loved her so much. Besides, _she_ had been the one to kiss him first. He knew that was the last thing to say to her father, but, despite his insolent degree of experience with women for a seventeen-year-old, René had indeed been the cautious one, too shy and afraid to destroy their friendship to make the first move. But then… Well, they were a couple, weren't they? They loved and trusted each other, and knew they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, so why wait? Had he pushed too much? Should he not have pushed, period? She'd seemed to yearn for it as much as he had. Of course, she'd had so much more to lose in giving in to him, but she'd known he would always be there, right?

That, he had said out loud. Calmly, first, insofar as his exhaustion had allowed, and then, maybe a bit too intensely. And perhaps he should not have ended his speech by yelling "You have no right to keep us apart!" but he was so, so tired of diplomacy.

"No right?" the man had repeated, his still more-or-less mild-natured face getting red. "I'm her father! I welcomed you into my house and turned a blind eye to your disastrous reputation because I trusted my daughter and I trusted _you_ , with your charming smiles, treacherous words and fake humility, as if you weren't nothing but another damn obnoxious noble-born cad. Such a fool I was! Watching you dishonoring Isabelle and making a laughing-stock of my family's reputation! Oh, I know you people can't even imagine that simple folks know anything about honor. But we do!"

"I'm not…" René had started, puzzled. He was no nobleman! He was a bastard. Raised in the brothel his mother had been forced to work in after the chevalier d'Herblay abandoned them. He might have been wearing nice clothes, now that he lived in his father's manor, tended his young beard every day, rode a fine horse and carried good weapons, but he came from the gutter and, even if he'd not told anybody about his mother's profession, he would never, ever forget that. The baker had not let him plead his case, though:

"You seduced her, you sullied her and destroyed all her hopes. Her losing the bastard babe was the best thing that could have happened. She has a chance, now, for a fresh start, somewhere nobody knows about her past, and I will do all that is in my power to stop you from ever seeing her again."

The next moment, René was holding his pistol under the man's nose, perfectly aware of how stupid, callous and selfish it was, but not giving a freaking damn.

When had everything gone so wrong?

It was true that the baker had welcomed him into his house. Several times, and for all that he was spitting on René's ancestry now, the man had praised his good nature and unexpected modesty. Once, he had even affectionately scrubbed his curly hair by surprise and huffed: "Ah! You're not that bad!"

That was more of a compliment than anything René's own father had ever said to him.

All things considered, they had even been rather fine after Isabelle had gotten pregnant. Of course, at first, both the baker and his wife had been furious. But René had been at his beloved's side when she'd told them. He had defended her, accepted the full blame and promised he would marry her and support her and the child, whatever it took. Aware of his proclivities, he'd considered enlisting, even if it meant risking his life and never seeing his son or daughter grow up. That had slightly mollified the couple's animosity.

But then, Isabelle had lost the baby, and her parents hadn't needed to pretend anymore.

He had not been there in the fatal moments, but with his own father, selling brandy at the fair. When he'd come back, Isabelle had not blamed him, yet he had seen the silent reproach in her eyes, like some kind of awful confirmation, and it had been another form of grief. He'd hurt so, so much, but she had been so tired and so sad that he could not confront her for the life of him. He had tried to be strong for her, and succeeded, to a certain extent. He had stayed at her bedside, cared for her whether she was plagued by nightmares or fever, cooked for her after she'd felt better but was still tired and weak from blood loss, and never cried in front of her, even if he knew his bloodshot eyes could not be mistaken for a simple manifestation of exhaustion. Exhausted he was, however, when, after four days, the call of fresh air had proven impossible to resist. He'd mounted Ébène, his young mare, and galloped to the little shed where he and Isabelle used to meet.

He'd stood in the single room for a while, contemplated the mattress, the kitchen tools, the flowers that had started to wither in their little vase, and the small uncomfortable chair she liked to rest in while he usually resigned himself to sitting on the floor rather than using the wobbly stool that threatened to lose a leg any time someone dared letting their bottom touch it. All these things had spoken of their happy moments together and, suddenly, it had seemed that the objects were grinning at him, mocking his naivety and arrogance - because what a fool he'd been to believe for even a second that a penniless chevalier's bastard son of a whore had any right to a family of his own? He had thrown the vase against the wall first, and then thoroughly trashed the place, until the wreckage finally showed a more accurate picture of his pathetic life.

It had given him quite a scare, to contemplate the violence that lay dormant inside him.

When he'd returned to the bakery, where the whole family resided, he'd found the man working alone. The flour and the wood fire smelled good, several loafs of breads were waiting to go in the oven, everything was silent except from the man's heavy breathing, and Isabelle was gone.

Now, René realized that customers could come in at any moment, and see him threatening the man. He briefly wondered what would happen. Would the baker press charges? Was his father powerful enough to spare him a sentence? Did he want him to?

"You won't shoot," his not-father-in-law had said, in an effort to sound like he believed his own words.

"Try me."

Brillant. Could he not come up with a better line? It was like having "Of course, I won't!" written on his face.

Still… Of course, he wouldn't. He had never killed anyone in his life, and would certainly not start with the father of the girl he loved.

For a moment, René wondered if Isabelle would forgive him for having roughed up her old man. He was doing it to save her, but she had never been the damsel in distress type. She was intelligent, strong and capable, and, above everything, she abhorred violence.

_What a mess!_

He was useless.

_What am I doing?_

People had repeatedly told him that he was smart, but what good was that if he kept acting before he thought?

_I just keep making things worse! Every time!_

He was no noble, not really, but he **was** a capricious brat who only cared about his own wants.

_I did ruin her life._

"Listen, boy," the baker implored, and René was about to snap, "Don't call me a boy!" but held back just in time not to humiliate himself any further. The man went on.

"I know you're sad. I know you're angry, and I'm sorry that I lashed out at you before, but I want you to think about what's best for Isabelle. I'm not saying that you deliberately used her. I can see that you believe you're in love but, trust me, you two would have destroyed each other. You're not a family man, son, you know that. And I thank you, for the sacrifices you were willing to make. I thank you for not abandoning my daughter, but it's all over, now. I swear that Isabelle will be well and happy. I'll make sure of it. And you… you can do whatever you want with your life."

René almost flinched, but he couldn't bring himself to lower the pistol. Finally, he merely snorted and said:

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

God! He sounded so broken!

He could see the pain in the baker's eyes, but at first didn't realize that it was now directed at him.

_What?_

His vision blurred a bit.

He was so horrified when he felt the moisture on his cheeks that he had check himself from smacking the pistol in the man's face.

_Don't look at me like that!_

_I don't want your pity!_

_And don't think for a second that this means you're right._ You _would cry too, in my shoes!_

He didn't bother to wipe away his tears. There was no point anymore in pretending that he was anything but a broken child who'd been fool enough to think getting a girl pregnant would make him a man.

But he could be a proud and honorable child.

_I know what I did wrong but I will make it up to her._

_I will atone for my sins but I will NOT. Be. Alone._

He finally lowered the weapon and raised his chin before saying: "I'll find her."

The man in front of him couldn't suppress a sad smile.

"I will," he insisted. "I can't force you to tell me where you're holding her imprisoned, but you _can't_ stop me."

And he left the bakery.

He came across Madame Mathieu on his way to Ébène. "Good morning, René," she greeted him. "Well, aren't you an early bird!"

He didn't answer. Didn't trust his voice enough to offer basic civility.

Only when the horse had taken him about five miles away from the village, at the edge of his father's woods, did he stop and fall on his knees to cry all the tears he had in him.

And when there was nothing left but dry, empty sobs, and he didn't feel any better, he straightened and howled out to the sky, not giving a damn if anyone heard him.

xxxx

When he finally made it to his father's house – not his, he realized; in five years living there, he had never thought of the place as his – he dismounted and left the mare in full harness near the old run-down barn that had been left unused since the family had lost the better part of its fortune, some century and a half ago. It was still early morning, but Madame Girard was already working in the kitchen, Phébus and Marie would soon wake up, and René didn't want to attract any attention.

The sooner he left, the higher his chances to find Isabelle. He knew where most of her relatives lived, but was afraid she would be moved from house to house, or even sent abroad, if he waited too long.

It was wrong, he thought, not to say goodbye to the servants. Especially to Jules, the stable boy, who had taught him a lot about horses, and to whom he'd given some swordfighting lessons when nobody was around. He felt less guilty regarding his family: he would be delighted if he never saw Phébus ever again; Marie would be a little sad at first, but would soon realize that she didn't miss her older half-brother any more than he missed her; and as for their father, he'd left two evenings ago, on one of his errands, and would not come back for a couple of days, which settled the matter.

That left Charles. The youngest son of the Chevalier d'Herblay, and René's favorite half-sibling, was away at school at Pontoise. But one of Isabelle's cousins lived there, so maybe he'd be able to see the boy. If not, well… He could always send him a letter. Charles was wise, if not as smart as the rest of the family. He would understand.

René swung by the armory to retrieve his spare pistol, some powder and knives, and managed to steal some bread and salted meat in the kitchen while the cook was out fetching eggs in the henhouse. After that, he hastened up the stairs, and then walked the old dim corridor, along the many closed doors of the rooms his father was not wealthy enough to keep warm. He briefly realized that he had never felt the slightest hint of curiosity regarding his ancestors' home. Never once, even during the long idle weeks that had followed his arrival, had he wanted to unlock the mysteries of the D'Herblay manor. He had wandered the place to pass the time, tried to open the closed doors, and sometimes succeeded, which had allowed him a dispassionate peek at what laid behind. Most of the rooms were half-empty. In one there had been a little bed covered by a sheet, and some dusty furniture. He had supposed that was the former bedroom of a lost child, but had never asked. He'd seen too many miscarriages and sudden infant deaths when he lived with his mother to feel more than a sad acceptance at the thought. The only thing he liked about the D'Herblay's manor was the smell. In addition to the scent of the fireplaces, a fruity bouquet from the distillery filled the air everywhere indoors, and even, during summer, the gardens. Not knowing when – and if – he would return, he decided to take a bottle of their liqueur on his journey.

From his small room, he took only some money, a change of clothes, his sewing kit and his old Bible, the one his mother had given to him and taught him to read with. He didn't dawdle but swore when he heard footsteps in the corridor. He sat on his bed, waiting for the nuisance to go away, but the noise stopped at his door and the handle moved. There was only one asshole in this house obnoxious enough to indulge in such an inappropriate behavior.

"Phébus." he stated, when the face of his fourteen-year-old fortunately-only-half-brother appeared at the door.

"What are you doing?" the light-brown boy asked, not bothering to apologize for the intrusion. When René failed to talk back, he pointed at the weapons at his side: "You can't have those. They're father's."

"He gave them to me." René answered matter-of-factly.

Phébus then fully entered the room. He was still in his nightclothes. Just out of bed, and already intent on making trouble.

"So what? You're a bastard. Nothing here is really yours."

In five years at The D'Herblay's, there'd been one question René had never found an answer to. It was not "Why did my father abandon us, forcing my mother to prostitute herself to feed me?" or "Why did he finally feel the urge to take me back?" but "What the bloody hell is this pathetic excuse for a brother's freaking problem?"

Phébus was handsome, capable, and even smart, in a wicked way. Most importantly, he was the legitimate heir. Still, for some reason, he had been jealous of René from the day he'd arrived . At first, the older boy had been a bit disappointed, but this feeling had quickly been replaced by a bored annoyance at the constant teasing. Not that Phébus was brave enough to confront him physically, or to even try to strike where it really hurt, but the absurdity of this disproportionate antagonism inevitably got on his nerves.

This morning, however, René had no time for it.

"Go away, Phébus. I have things to do."

"Well, too bad," the boy blurted. "Because I'm in charge of this house when father is away and I demand you tell me where you plan to go."

René couldn't resist giving the brat a flat look before resuming his packing and heading for the door. But Phébus, maybe sensing there was something different in the air this morning, didn't move. René sighed. "Don't make me hit you, kid."

Phébus flinched. René had almost never called him "brother", but "kid" was a new thing. It was not in his habits to be patronizing, but if he could one up over the little brat one last time without having to punch his face (he was quite proud that had never happened), he would not deny himself the chance.

The put-down worked. Phébus involuntarily moved back, allowing René to leave without a further word. But he had only gone three steps before his nasty brother recovered from the shock and in an unsteady voice brayed: "Is it your slut losing your bastard that makes you such a sourpuss?"

The next second, René's pack was on the floor, and his left forearm under Phébus's throat. The boy's eyes went wide as he was shoved up against the wall.

"You just had to wait ten. More. Minutes," René voiced between his teeth, "and you'd have been rid of me for good. But you couldn't keep your damned mouth shut, could you?"

Phébus tried to say something but only managed to summon a pathetic wheeze. When he started to go red, René reluctantly eased his pressure, still considering whether to punch the boy for good measure.

"You're… leaving?" Phébus croaked, and then probably noticed how weak he'd sounded, because his face hardened and he added with a smirk: "Then you'll never know."

"Know what?" René asked, more by reflex than any actual curiosity.

"Where father goes when he leaves the house."

What the Hell was that about all of a sudden? René didn't care what his father did in his spare time. Maybe he was visiting a mistress, or selling some extra brandy on the black market – it was unlikely from such a self-righteous chevalier, but hardly an unimaginable hypocrisy these days. Or maybe he simply wanted some time away from his children. Either way, it was none of their business.

Phébus had a devilish grin on his face, now, and René shrugged before releasing him.

"Go get dressed. You're not even worth punching."

His brother opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by a lilting voice.

"Leave him alone, Phébus."

Both young men turned to the thirteen-year-old girl who had just come out of her own room. She pushed back the dark curly hair she had not taken the time to comb from her sweet brown eyes and scowled at Phébus, who growled: "You have no right to give me orders."

"No." Marie agreed. "But, if you don't go away, I'll tell father that you mounted Sirius before his leg was healed, and that's why he's still limping."

"I didn't..." Phébus started to argue, but stopped when the proud girl didn't falter. He settled for a disdainful snort, along with another nasty look at René. "Remember what I said," he hissed, before turning around and then, as he walked past his sister: "You'll pay for that."

She rolled her eyes and René muffled a laugh. Marie had nothing to fear. Even if the horse story was not true, she was their father's favorite.

"You're the real master of this house," he said to her, knowing that Phébus was still within earshot, and she gave him a smile that carried no joy.

"Where are you going?" she asked while he picked up his pack from the floor.

"Searching for Isabelle."

"Will you come back?"

At first, René said nothing. Would he come back? To a father he didn't love, a brother he believed would end up plotting his death and an estate he didn't care about? Would Isabelle even want to settle in a place so full of bad memories, where half the town folk called her a whore and the other looked at her with too much pity to bear?

"Probably not," he admitted. "But I'll write."

He was about to add that he was sorry that he'd considered leaving without saying goodbye to her, but she spoke gravely: "You should come back."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

"Because…" she hesitated, visibly unsure she was allowed to reveal the information, but sighed and announced: "Because I believe father wants to make you his heir."

For a second, René was too stunned to answer. That could not be. Phébus was the heir. That was the plan all along, and the normal course of things. Never once their father had mentioned another possibility, and never once had he treated René as if the thought had crossed his mind. Finally, he simply asked: "What makes you think that?"

The girl shrugged: "Would you let Phébus administer the estate?"

"I don't know. He's been taught to."

"But he doesn't learn! He's driven by spite and jealousy. Everything he does is for himself. He would complete the ruin of our family. It's our responsibility to prevent that."

That last sentence sparked a fury René didn't know was still there.

Our _responsibility?_ He wanted to snap at the girl's face. _Since when has it become my problem? For the first time in my life, I have a purpose. Why would I throw that away to fix the D'Herblay's mess?_ But Marie would not understand. As poor as they all were for a noble family, she had, compared to most people, lived in luxury all her existence, and she was all about principles. So, he only said:

"Thank you for telling me. But I don't wish to inherit the title."

"Why?"

The question was almost comical. _Well, let's see._ _Because I'm a bastard? Because the man who so generously wants me to be his successor now that he's short of other options is the one who forced my mother to become a prostitute? Because it took him eight years to change his mind and let me live here, probably in a pathetic attempt to cleanse his soul before meeting God? Because not a single person in this household, and that does include you, ever did anything to make me feel at home? Or simply because I would not have the slightest idea of how to run an estate, even if I wanted to? Which I don't!_

The irony, though, was a delight. Musing over it was revenge enough for everything Phébus had done to him in the past. All the hatred, the erratic behavior, and the stupid delusions the oaf had ever shown out of fear of losing the estate were precisely the reasons why it was offered to René, now. And he wouldn't even take it!

He chuckled and Marie gave him an inquiring look. Remembering her question, he kissed her goodbye on the forehead and smiled.

"I'm not a D'Herblay. Never will be."

As he walked down the corridor to his new life, he felt strangely at peace. The grief was still there, of course, and the anger, and the tiredness, but this new certainty of knowing where to go and what to do was invigorating. Marie had not tried to argue, let alone run after him, but, just before he reached the top of the stairs, he heard her sweet, strong voice rise with another question:

"What are you, then?"

He stopped short but didn't answer immediately, considering the question, and the girl felt the need to clarify: "If you're not a D'Herblay?"

When he and his mother had been cast away from Herblay, all those years ago, and before she'd started to work in the brothel that would become their house, they had settled for a while in a small village, not far from the Spanish border. The people there had been kind to them, a widowed innkeeper even offering to let them stay for a week, to recover from their journey, only asking for some help in the kitchen in return. Years after, when he'd been old enough to ride on his own, he had gone back to the place. The innkeeper had died, but the majority of the villagers were still welcoming, gladly sharing their memories of the elderly woman with this strange boy who asked so many questions. He had felt good. Almost at home. After all, it'd been the first and only place to treat him as if he belonged. He'd been there twice in his life, but never forgot the name.

He turned to face Marie one more time and smiled before answering:

"I'm Aramis."

x

À suivre :)


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Aramis was attacked, it was a simple case of "learning by doing". Or by "not doing", to be exact, since he'd forgotten to secure his camp.

He had been lucky, until then, and had managed to travel five weeks without being ambushed. Maybe the sight of an over-armed voyager was deterrent enough for common criminals, or perhaps he just had good instincts. It was his first time alone on the road, and nobody had ever given him basic guidance on the matter, but it had just seemed logical to favor well-travelled paths, to avoid wandering the forests in the dark and to camp behind slopes some distance away from the main road, or in secluded clearings. Yet, with the arrival of autumn, the evenings had become more damp and chilly and, at some point, the young man had started to neglect putting out his fire before going to sleep.

The night immediately after leaving Herblay he had spent in an inn. That had substantially lightened his purse, but he was aware that he needed to regain his strength after the five exhausting days that had preceded his flight. He had never felt so drained in his life and, even if he would not have admitted it out loud, he'd also been a little concerned about his emotional state. After all, the morning before, he had trashed a place, put a pistol under Isabelle's father's nose, nearly strangled his half-brother… and turned his back on an inheritance that, modest as it was, would have allowed him to live his whole life almost free from want, along with granting him some privileges he would never have dared dream of. He didn't regret his decision to renounce his father's name and possessions, but wondered what said decision and absence of remorse spoke of his sanity.

He'd been heading to the small farm owned by Isabelle's older brother when he'd come across a young woman, on her way to the washing place. She'd been carrying a large basket full of laundry, and a snotty-nosed little girl had been clinging to her skirt. When the clumsy child had stepped on the fabric, the woman had stumbled, almost dropping her load, and some of the clothes had fallen to the ground. The mother had turned on her daughter with a frown, and the child had started to cry. So, instead of rebuking her, she'd laughed and given her a big hug, gently scolding her while kissing her messy hair. Watching the spectacle like it was some biblical scene, Aramis had felt something breaking inside him. At some point, the mother had noticed his presence and looked up to see this armed young gentleman, perched on his horse, staring down at her and her daughter very much as if he was about to burst into tears, or murder them, or both. She had tightened her embrace on the child and whispered something in her ear. The girl had ran off toward the village, while her mother carefully picked up her laundry and followed her, not without shooting Aramis a number of frightened yet menacing backwards glances.

"I must rest," he had muttered to himself, and another laundress had peered up at him in surprise, making him move at last, and lead his mare to the modest inn, a small part of his brain (the one that was still capable of detachment) wondering if he would one day be able to look back on the incident and appreciate the humor in it.

He hadn't minded postponing the confrontation with Isabelle's brother. It was unlikely that his beloved would have been hidden in such an obvious location, but he had to make sure of it before searching further.

Ruling out all the places where her numerous relatives lived around Herblay had been a frustrating task. He constantly felt like he was wasting precious time, time during which his beloved could be moved anywhere, but it would have been stupid to head to Pontoise or further afield before making sure that none of these people were involved in her abduction. After many days of spying (and one of roughly questioning a particularly uncooperative uncle who had managed to spot him), he'd been certain enough to carry on his journey with as clear a mind as he could muster in his position.

Quickly, his new life had turned into a routine: he would wake up around dawn, eat a quick breakfast, pack his meager possessions and ride all day long, or until he reached one of Isabelle's cousins' house, stopping only to take a light meal or deal with his natural needs. Then, he would find a safe place to stay, set up camp, rub down Ébène, set snares to check in the morning (or fish, if it was still light and a river ran nearby) and, at last, eat and say a quick prayer before going to sleep, hoping that the rest would heal his aching body. How so many people were able to travel so many days in a row without feeling like they had been trampled by a horse in the evening was something that quite baffled him. Occasionally, he would hunt, but fear of running out of powder led him, most of the time, to rely on cheaper ways to feed himself.

It was curious, he mused, how easy it was to turn a reckless angry lad into a cautious, pious traveler. Not that his anger had faded, obviously, or that his craving for adventure was any less compelling, but he didn't find it difficult to restrain his instincts. He had a purpose, and, as hopeless as it might be, he kind of liked the dazed serenity that came with it.

Still, now and again, he missed his friends. Or, at least, he missed talking to someone. He'd had many playmates, back at Herblay. Mostly bourgeois' children, all falling for his infuriating charm that would inevitably get them into delightful trouble. But there had also been some uptight yet receptive sons of nobility among them. His good nature had always made him easy to love, even if, before Isabelle, he'd never felt anything really fulfilling in return. He wondered what it was like, to have people you truly care for around you. People who would have your back, and that you'd sacrifice everything for, like in those romantic ballads Marie was so fond of. People you would not leave and forget to bid farewell to. He wondered if such people even existed, or if poets just made them up, to provide you with some spoon-fed hope of a better life, when religion didn't suffice.

The day of the attack, the weather was awful. A dense drizzle had been falling since the early morning and, as evening came, was threatening to turn into a heavy rain. Aramis' coat was rapidly drenched and it was not long before the humidity spread into everything he was wearing. Pontoise was still three or four hours ride away when, between two shivering fits, he irritably realized that he could not make it without catching ill. Teeth clenched to control their chattering, he found shelter against a chalky slope that was no protection against the wind but at least took him quite out of the rain.

It took the last scraps of his willpower to take care of Ébène before working on his fire and, when he managed to get some flames from the few pieces of nearly-dry wood he'd found, he almost sobbed with relief. His hopes were short-lived, though, for no matter how strong he got his fire, no heat could reach through the fierce freezing damp that had seized his whole body.

He removed most of his clothes and put them to dry, then, cursing under his breath, buried himself under his two blankets, and lay down as close to the fire as possible without bursting into flames. What he needed was a bath and a hot meal. He was suddenly not so sure that he shouldn't have pushed on to Pontoise. Spending a night on the ground, barely sheltered from the elements, while enduring the effects of forty days in the saddle and a diet of biscuits and poor meat from the scrawny hares and birds he sometimes caught suddenly didn't feel much safer. What would happen if he got ill? Would he be able to recover by himself or would he have to call for a doctor and spend his last coin recovering in an inn? Would he have to go back to Herblay, tail between his legs? Because of a cold? He took a large swig of the brandy to warm himself, and another in the hope that the alcohol would help knock him out.

He eventually slipped into a restless slumber. Images of Isabelle and his father blended into a faceless monster that kept telling him it was "very disappointed". He saw childhood friends. Pauline and Guillaume, his best pals back at the house, Rémi, a sweet boy who had died of influenza, Jérôme, the first to welcome him in Herblay, and Yves, the chevalier de Domont's youngest son, who'd kept telling him that, with a face like his and so much wit, he could accomplish anything. He didn't see any of his former lovers, but he did see the sad eyes of his long-gone mother. He saw her with Monsieur D'Arette, just like that one time he had forgotten to knock and had come upon them. Unlike the uproar that had followed then, in his dream, she didn't stop her business but only straightened, and shook her head, as if wondering how, after all that she'd sacrificed for this useless son, everything could still be going so wrong. Monsieur D'Arette sighed in sad agreement. When had her over-educated, sweet, smart and proud boy turned into this penniless delusional wanderer? She'd worked so, so, hard! Why had she taken him with her instead of… what? Something eluded him and he shifted in his sleep, a painful lump in the ground digging into his back and chasing the question away. He saw Marie, Charles and Phébus, he saw his warm room in the manor, and the little chapel he liked to stay in to pray, or just muse about life and his future. There was a large cross on the main wall, with a terrifyingly realistic Christ nailed to it. The pain the artist had managed to convey on the statue's face was so overwrought it was almost grotesque. Most children didn't dare to even look at the thing, but, for some reason, Aramis had always found it comforting. Now, the distorted figure seemed to be crying, in a perfect echo of his own misery: ardent, desperate, and a bit ridiculous.

He was just about to start a conversation with the weeping Christ when he felt something touch his chest. His eyes snapped open and he found himself face to face with a grinning figure with long hair and wide, crazy eyes. For a fraction of second, his foggy brain believed it was the statue, but no piece of art, no matter how coarse it was, would deign to come alive to personally strangle the life out of an innocent traveler. He gasped and, on reflex, elbowed the exposed chin in front of him, getting a muffled cry out of its owner. Aramis was on his feet a second later, still-sheathed sword in hand. Before he had time to draw it, what, now he was awake and rational, smelled and looked like a tramp, was on him and both men fell to the ground, out into the rain and mud. Aramis fought off the clumsy assault, but everything was slippery and he had to dig his nails into his aggressor's face and push to kick him in the chest. He heard the unmistakable crack of a rib and his assailant collapsed to one side, giving him time to get back on his unsteady feet.

The man started to scramble away, on his bottom, his heels slipping in the muck, drenched by the now pouring rain. The absence of the moon, combined with the diminishing fire at Aramis' back, made it difficult to distinguish his face, but his small whimpers testified to his state of growing panic. Aramis drew his blade at last and commanded: "On your feet!"

The man tried to comply, but slipped again and fell back on his ass. He gave an undignified whine and curled himself into a ball. Aramis sighed and stepped forward to help the pathetic wreck to his feet, wondering what he could use to restrain him until the sun rose and he could hand him over to the proper authorities. He was mentally going through his saddlebags' contents when the man suddenly rose with a piercing shriek. Startled, Aramis moved back, dodging the new attack easily, but failing to raise his arm fast enough to seize the madman, who disappeared in the darkness, howling and cursing unintelligibly.

For a moment, Aramis just stood there, staring at where the squawking shadow had vanished, wondering what to do. He was in his undergarments, covered in muck, in a pitch-black night, under the rain. His clothes hadn't had time to dry, his fire was starting to burn dangerously low, and there was a lunatic, maybe ready to take his second chance at robbing him, in the vicinity.

This guy could have stolen Ébène!

_Or cut my throat_ , something in his brain pointed out, as he noticed one of his own daggers on the ground.

The man must have dropped it as he fled.

Which meant he'd had plenty of time to wander around and poke into his supplies before attacking him.

_And I didn't hear a thing!_

He had to go.

Find shelter somewhere else, stay awake, wait until daybreak and head to the town.

xxxx

When Aramis arrived in Pontoise, drenched, disheveled, and his whole body shaking, he chose the first inn he spotted, ordered a slightly bemused stable boy to look after Ébène, then stepped loudly inside and asked the landlady for a room and a bath. He removed the change of clothes he had managed to put on over his muddy undergarments, called for someone to take care of his laundry, and spent an entire hour in the warm water.

When it started to cool, he quickly dried himself off, then sunk into the sheets, not even bothering with cleaning his weapons. He slept through the whole day and, when he woke up, his clothes were waiting, neatly folded, on the small table that, along with the bed, constituted the only furniture in the room.

He felt feverish, but reasonably rested, as he made his way down the common room and asked for broth, a slice of lamb, vegetables and cheese, along with a good bottle of wine, all of which he wolfed down in silence, until his stomach hurt.

He had supposed that his first decent meal in five weeks would taste like a feast but, in fact, he was so plum worn out that even the wide fireplace, the pretty tavern girls and the man who was playing a kind of viol in the back of the dining room were beyond his appreciation. He confusedly intuited that he had picked a far better establishment than he could properly afford but, at that point, he found it difficult to care. Only when the young girl who was serving him left his table with a sigh and a stamp of her foot did he realize he had completely missed the googly eyes she'd been giving him. One of her friends was mocking her, now, so, on the way to his chamber, he pushed himself to whisper some sweet nothings in her ear and she blushed a little, like the innocent maiden she certainly wasn't.

He didn't invite her to spend the night in his room, though. It had been two years since he'd been with anyone except Isabelle, and he had no intention of breaking faith with her just because they had been forcefully separated.

Also, he felt like shit.

It took him two days to recover from his chill, and another one to locate where Isabelle's distant uncle, a Monsieur Bosquet, lived. It was a modest but well-run butcher's shop, topped by what looked like a small apartment. Aramis spent several hours observing the place and found no hint that anyone resided there save the man and his wife. The old couple received very few visits other than their customers, and he observed them, through the upper windows, having dinner alone before going to sleep. Still, he had to make absolutely sure, so he spent another day spying and, the following evening, took advantage of a waxing moon to climb the small garden wall, and then up a tree, to take a peek at the rooms that didn't face the street. When Madame Bosquet closed the shutters, humming an airy tune, he feared that she might see him, but she remained oblivious to his presence. Aramis was not yet an expert in intrigues, but he knew this was not the behavior of people who were hiding someone.

In desperation, he gave one of his last _sous_ to a young boy that he'd spotted selling water to the locals. The lad had a gift of gab such as he had never heard before, and often managed to browbeat wealthy citizens into buying a whole bath each day, some of them probably doing so just to get him to shut up. Aramis begged some wax and paper off the inn's landlord, and folded the latter into the shape of a letter that he sealed with the cap of a salt cellar. He then gave his handiwork to the boy, provided him with a story, and sent him to the butcher's. He was pretty sure that the word had spread that the lad who had gotten Isabelle pregnant was now searching for her, so he wouldn't disclose his identity, but he wandered casually into the shop at the same time as his new acolyte and, pretending to consider a salted ham, listened to the conversation:

"Isabelle?" the butcher repeated, and the lad nodded. "There must be a mistake."

"The _madame_ who gave me this letter told me that she was a niece of yours and she lived with you," the boy recited quite convincingly.

"Well, I have plenty of nieces, but most of 'em I've never met. What's this letter about?"

"No idea, Monsieur, but the _madame_ told me I should only give it to Isabelle personally. Pretty swanky she was. With laces, and jewels and everythin'. And she gave me an _écu_!" he added with a broad smile.

Aramis couldn't help but grin at the improvisation. The lad was close to going overboard, but he was a natural and looked like he was thoroughly enjoying his mission. The butcher, on the other hand, seemed totally lost. He didn't want to turn away the messenger of a possibly noble lady who had, for some unfathomable reason, dealings with a member of his family, but he visibly had no idea who this Isabelle was. A long, difficult conversation ensued, during which the couple tried to gather more information regarding the enigmatic "madame" and the even more mysterious niece. When that failed, they attempted to get the boy to entrust them with the letter, by which point the smooth talker was clearly starting to run short of ideas. Aramis brought himself to general attention with a cough, and, in his best snooty voice, reminded the two butchers that he was still waiting to be served. Their flow of apologies gave the lad enough time to flee.

Still, the whole episode would have been more amusing if it hadn't very much sounded the death knell of the last few hopes of Aramis.

He could keep searching. He knew the names of at least three other relatives of Isabelle. One in Paris, one in Troyes and one near Reims. However, even if he managed to get addresses, he was practically broke. Paris was close enough, but, to get any further, he would have to travel in the cold weather, something he was absolutely not equipped for. He had nothing to sell, but maybe he could break up his journey and find work at a craftsman's. How long would it take him to earn enough money to hit the road again? Weeks? Months? What would happen to Isabelle in the meantime?

The next morning, he packed his things, and, since it was Sunday, went to mass. He chose the church of Saint-Maclou, which was located quite far from his inn and meant he would have to turn back south-east, where he'd come from, to leave town, but it was there that Charles's school took its pupils every week.

Ironically enough, the priest's sermon was about strength and perseverance. "In light of His coming, be patient," the minister quoted, and, in the back of the church, Aramis, for once, didn't pay much attention. He was focused on his brother. The twelve-year-old was growing into a handsome young man, with an already large chin and mild, wide brown eyes. He listened to the priest, brows slightly frowning in concentration, and Aramis smiled fondly. Charles was not very religious. None of the D'Herblay were. But he was curious, and willing to learn even about things he didn't fully agree with.

He would make a fine heir, Aramis mused, if anything happened to Phébus. Far better than **he** would have been. Maybe, with the help of Marie, he would be able to manipulate his brutish older brother, and the three of them could manage to keep the estate afloat.

_What do I care?_ he scolded himself.

He left silently. He was pretty sure that Charles would have tried to make him change his mind, and he didn't have the energy for pointless arguments. On his way out of Pontoise, he stopped at the school and left a letter for him. He knew they could have been close, if only they had lived together a bit longer.

When he was still René, Aramis had been the first to teach Charles how to read and write, and how to fight with a stick. It had given him a glimpse of what it was like to be a big brother, and part of a family. It hadn't lasted, but he was grateful to the boy all the same. He told him so, in his letter, and wished him good luck, and for him to be happy, even if they were not to see each other again. He apologized for leaving, but did not elaborate that he was not sorry enough to feel distressed. The truth was, as desperate as his situation was, he had never felt more alive in his existence. There were many dangers on the road. He could be killed by bandits, or another lunatic, or even the cold or hunger, but he was not afraid.

He knew he had to keep going. Even if he had not found Isabelle, even if he had not been able to find a single clue of where she might be, he was enjoying the search.

And he was not sure he could face what would happen if he stopped.

x

À suivre :)


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis was riding toward a forest when he heard singing.

It was early afternoon, and he was enjoying the warm autumn light that had, blissfully, replaced the grim rainy atmosphere of the previous days. A riot of vividly colored autumn leaves tossed about in the breeze and there was a sweet smell in the air, a mixture of moss, dust and humus that, somehow, took the edge off the light but constant hunger that had plagued him since he'd started to run out of biscuits. When a deep baritone voice rang out a little ways ahead, a robin flew up from a rock near the road and Ébène made a soft huffing noise.

" _C'est à toi, mon capitaine,  
_ _À qui je bois ce coup d'autant.  
_ _Si je le fais d'une baleine,  
_ _Il en faudra faire autant._  "

Aramis smiled in surprise. He couldn't see the singer through the trees, but the voice hinted at a significant degree of inebriation. Only a fool would travel drunk on these remote rural roads but then again, only a fool would embark on a half-random love quest without adequate money and equipment, so who was he to judge?

" _Je ne t'y lairrai jamais, m'amie,  
_ _Tant que tu feras clou, glou, glou ;  
_ _Je ne t'y lairrai jamais, m'amie,  
_ _Tant que nous ayons bu tout._  "

He'd heard this song before, back at the house, and the memory weighed on his heart. Not for the first time since he'd left, he mused over the oddity of what might or might not seize a person's heart. As a young boy, he had seen beautiful girls wither away within a year from the work they did. A few of them had died of awful diseases that, sometimes, also took their children – his friends. One day, Mélanie, one of the most beloved and respected women of the house, had been found naked in the street just behind, her throat slashed open. All of these things, as well as other lesser tragedies, he had endured with fortitude, but a bawdy drinking song was close to bringing tears into his eyes.

Two years after she'd died, he still missed his mother.

He wondered if he would ever forgive himself for not having been at her deathbed.

He shook his head to clear it and gave a small kick to Ébène, who had started to slow down. The chant went on: " _Soldat, je te remercie, De ce que tu bois à moi._ "

" _De cela ne t'en soucie,_ " Aramis hummed along with the singer, as the latter went on: " _J'en feray autant que t_ HOLY VIRGIN MARY’S TEATS!!!"

"Hands up! Hands up!"

"I'm unarmed!"

"I said: hands up!"

"I'm… There! They're up! They're up! Don't shoot, I'm begging you!"

Without even thinking about it, Aramis dismounted and ran toward the noise. Only when he broke through the trees, making for the direction of what appeared to be a small path that ran alongside the road he had been following, did he start to weigh his options. The commotion was close, and he'd only heard two voices. Although that didn't mean there wasn't more than one bandit. He had his sword, several daggers and two loaded pistols, but had never been in a real fight in his life – notwithstanding the various noses he had broken when their owners had impugned his mother's reputation.

He drew one of his pistols and crouched down, slowly making his way to the place of the ambush, hoping that the bandits would be as oblivious to his approach as the wild animals he used to hunt this way.

"Vincent, take a look at the cart," ordered the menacing voice. Two bandits, then. "And you, throw me your purse, if you wanna live!"

The path ran below him and, from his vantage point, Aramis had a better view of the situation. There were, indeed, two brigands. One, on a horse, was threatening a paunchy traveling merchant with his pistol, while the other, blade in hand, was rifling through the packages in the man's cart. The vehicle in question was covered by a dusty cloth. It was small, but bowed under the weight of an unbelievable quantity of random articles. Aramis made out what looked like a broom handle, several barrels, rolls of fabric, and a variety of cooking tools nailed along the side. The merchant had raised his arms in a sign of submission. He was trembling, which did little to lessen the sweat that beaded on his large whiskered face and soaked his shirt under his armpits and across his flabby chest.

"Where d'ya keep the rest of your money, ya fat bastard?" the man in the cart growled, and the merchant muttered something unintelligible. The brigand moved behind his back and put his weapon against his neck.

"Don't make me ask again!"

"I… I don't… I…" the big tradesman stuttered, and then, as blood began to drip against the blade: "Please! It's under the cart! Under the cart! Behind a loose plank! Take it and don't kill me!"

The bandit grinned and jumped off the cart. When he moved under the vehicle, Aramis seized the opportunity and simply stepped into view and pointed his weapon in the direction of the mounted brigand.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he started amiably before addressing the merchant, without removing his eyes from his target. "Monsieur, I seem to find you in an incommodious situation. May I be of assistance?"

The man studied him warily, visibly wondering if this newcomer would be his salvation or his death.

"I… I…" he stuttered again, and the brigand on the horse, quickly recovering from his surprise, smiled broadly: "Drop your toy, lad. You don't wanna hurt yourself."

"I'm afraid I can't, Monsieur." Aramis replied. "You see, I was raised a gentleman, and, as such, cannot allow a crime to be committed in front of me."

"You arrogant brat," the other burglar spat as he moved out from under the cart to glare at him. "Rescuing some big fat oaf from the starvin' poor folks!"

"I am poor and hungry myself." Aramis stated, despite noticing that the two brigands seemed quite well-off themselves, and their clothes and weapons were almost as fine as his. "That is why I am planning, as soon as I have helped this good fellow to escape from your clutches, on finding honest employment."

"Who would hire us? We…"

"Don't debate with him!" barked the man on the horse, who was indisputably the leader, and Aramis heard the merchant chuckle.

"Ya think it's funny?" the other highwayman asked, but the big man didn't have time to come up with a safe answer, since the leader shouted again: "Enough! I won't ask you again, son. Drop your weapon, and maybe we'll be merciful and let you live."

"Well, it seems we have reached an impasse," Aramis deplored, and, just as he was about to shoot the man in the leg, he spotted a motion on his left.

Everything happened very fast.

Aramis turned his head in the direction of the movement.

He drew his other pistol and aimed at the newcomer who had just emerged from the woods.

Three gunshots rang out.

Aramis threw himself to the ground.

The merchant screamed.

The new interloper fell to his knees.

The bandit leader dropped his pistol and clasped a hand to his shoulder.

Aramis, still flat on his belly, raised his head to check on the situation.

The third brigand was on the ground, now, and a small crimson puddle had started to form on the earth, under his chest. The leader looked at him, his own shoulder bleeding profusely, eyes wide open in disbelief; the merchant and the last bandit both wore similar bemused expressions. When the latter, his blade still in his hand, made to move towards the cart-owner, Aramis leapt to his feet, leaving his now useless pistols in the dirt, and drew his sword. Panting, he pointed the weapon in the direction of the ruffian and, giving up all pretense of civility, flatly stated: "You know… I'm also pretty good with a blade."

The man dropped his own weapon, and there was a moment of silence, until Aramis realized that everybody was waiting for him to decide what to do next.

Confused, he looked at the merchant, who smoothed his brown moustache before politely suggesting:

"We should… Maybe… Tie them up."

"Right," Aramis answered, before amending: "No. Wait. What if there are wolves?"

"Do you really care?"

That was a good question. The two survivors could just rot there, for all he cared. Still, somehow, the idea of leaving them at the mercy of the wild beasts, unable to defend themselves, didn't feel honorable. Shooting them on the spot almost seemed charitable, in comparison, but he couldn't picture himself killing two unarmed men in cold blood. The third option was to deliver them to the authorities, but that implied keeping the wounded man alive, which he didn't know how to, and making one hundred percent sure that the other would not break free and murder him and the tradesman in their sleep, which he didn't feel capable of either. Besides, the closest town was at least twenty miles away, and, to be honest, he didn't want to trouble himself with the aggravation. The only thing that really mattered was to be certain that no bandit would pursue them to seek vengeance. So, he made a much improvised decision:

"Take your pants off."

"I beg your pardon?" the leader croaked.

"You heard me. Get down off this horse and take your pants… and your undergarments off. Both of you."

With murderous looks, the brigands obliged.

"Now," Aramis went on, indicating the merchant, "throw them to Monsieur…"

"François Bruneau," the man introduced himself.

"… To Monsieur Bruneau. Perfect. Now step back. Sit on the ground, and shut up," he added when the leader opened his mouth. "I'm thinking."

"You're going to let them live?" Bruneau asked, clearly not please by the prospect.

"I'm not a murderer."

"They're not going to return the favor, you know."

"Well," Aramis curtly replied, "if you want to cut their throats, be my guest, but, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not going to go against my principles for fear of two bare-assed men on foot."

Only upon that saying did he realize that just one of the bandits' horses was visible. While Bruneau contemplated the notion of slicing a blade across two human necks, and seemed to turn a bit green at the prospect, Aramis noticed the second brigand shooting a worried glance in the direction of the trees. He shushed Bruneau who was about to speak, and focused on listening to the surrounding sounds. It was not long before he heard a faint neigh, and that was when he came to what might be a fine emergency solution to his money issues. He smiled at the brigand leader and witnessed, for the first time, a particular blend of fear and anticipation that would be painted on a lot of his enemies' faces in the future.

"Bruneau, gather up their weapons. Then go fetch their two remaining horses," he instructed, pointing at the right direction in the wood. "You'll give them bandages, a shovel to bury the dead, and enough food to eat for two days".

The merchant was about to protest, when Aramis addressed the bandits: "And you… Take your blankets from your horses. When that's done, throw me your purses…" His smiled widened as he quoted: "… If you wanna live."

xxxx

"You know, if you're going to steal from the rich to give to the poor, you're supposed to share the loot with other poor people besides yourself."

Aramis took a bit of his apple and grinned at Bruneau before turning his gaze back to the road. They were riding along a straight, boring track, and the merchant's inebriated conversation had never felt so welcome.

In the almost-week now he'd been charged with protecting Bruneau's cart in exchange for food and a modest fee, the young man had been subjected to astonishingly long monologues, oft-repeated anecdotes and terrible bawdy songs that stuck in his head for days. Yet, he took his new – and first – job very seriously.

He knew he could trust his eyes and ears to spot hidden threats. He had always been aware of this ability, but it had made itself most tangible during the incident with the brigands. Still, he wasn't one to rest on his laurels, and Bruneau's ramblings weren't usually helpful in staying focused. However, today, in this wide, open space, he found them a pleasant distraction.

"Do you want me to go back and give the money from the horses to the authorities?" he asked, straightening on Ébène with a smirk. The evening before, they had reached a small town and sold the bandit's mounts. Bruneau had done the haggling, so Aramis had insisted that they split their earnings. With his new assignment, he was assured of having food to eat every day, and even of making enough to save money for when he'd resume his own journey. Not having to find work at a craftsman's meant he would not have to settle for weeks at the same place. Besides, Bruneau would have to return to Paris, where his family lived, to replenish his cart. From there, Aramis would be able to resume his quest. All this made him almost as grateful to Bruneau as the merchant was to him for saving his cargo – and probably his life.

"I'm not used to being attacked!" the man had told him in outrage, during their first day together. "Everybody around here knows François Bruneau. I'm their only connection to the world."

It was true that peddlers were, on average more or less spared by local bandits. Their social role was well acknowledged and, despite their loaded carts making easy targets, they were seldom the main object of a marauder's attention. Still, Bruneau's aggravation was comical. Wandering the roads was not a safe business for anyone, as a seasoned traveler like him should certainly know. In the past few years, King Louis' strife against the Protestants, still under the influence of his mother Marie de Médicis, had done nothing to improve the domestic situation in the French countryside. There were more and more people trying to escape the conflicts, abandoning their homes and possessions. That, along with the increased taxes, didn't help secure the roads. Yet the man seemed to consider the recent attack as a personal offense.

Bruneau crinkled his nose at the idea of giving back the horse's money. What they had done could easily (and quite objectively, legally speaking, most certainly  _would_ ) be labeled dealing in stolen goods, but, after having been at the business end of the chief bandit's pistol, it was difficult to feel overburdened by moral qualms.

"Well… No," he finally answered. "I mean… It would raise suspicions. Who in his sane mind would do such a thing? They would believe we stole it. But," he added very seriously, "that's still no good Christian behavior. We shouldn't make a habit of it!"

"I hope we'll not make a habit of being ambushed," Aramis declared. "I'm not sure I could protect you from a large band, and it's pretty obvious," he added with a pointed glance at the bottle in the merchant's hands, "that you would be useless at protecting me."

"Heh!" Bruneau shrugged unapologetically. "We all have our parts to play. You're the romantic, brave, hero on a noble quest, and I'm the wise, older fellow who teaches you how to get ahead in the world."

Aramis smiled again. He had told Bruneau about his search, and the older man had been very sympathetic. He knew that the traveler's own sentimental soul was the main reason for his support, and he could practically hear the inner workings of the tradesman's mind trying to come up with the Ballade Of The Young Gentleman of Fortune With A Broken Heart. Still, it felt good to not be considered an idealistic simpleton by a man of experience.

"You were the one traveling alone through the woods, when there was a perfectly serviceable road a hundred feet to your right," he nonetheless countered.

At that, Bruneau tensed. However, he was nothing but friendly when he retorted:

"As a matter of fact, I was coming back from one of my remote customers. The poor woman lives as a recluse. I'm her only contact with the outside word and, I know this may be hard for you to envision, young man," he added with mock offence, "but François Bruneau is not one to ignore his duties!"

Aramis smiled, then shook his head when Bruneau offered him the bottle that seemed a (rude) part of his body by dint of laying permanently on his lap.

"Come on!" the man exclaimed. "It's not every day you get to taste a vintage like that!"

It was every day, in fact, for a week. The wines Bruneau shared with his new friend and partner every night around their campfire were, for the most part, among the best Aramis had ever tasted. And the  _cellar_ they had at Herblay was a pretty good one. He often wondered how a simple merchant managed to acquire such delicacies, but it seemed that Bruneau was relatively wealthy. And he did take his duties seriously. He saw to his customers' every need, even when said customers were infuriating gossipmongers, or such utter cheapskates that Aramis had to go for a walk during the negotiations, for fear of slapping someone. That made him miss the long stories the merchant told when the sales were concluded, some fictional, full of elves, trolls and fairies that lured innocent voyagers into treacherous traps in the forest, the others supposedly news from the world, but hardly more believable. Aramis didn't mind that: he had plenty of opportunities to catch up when they resumed their traveling, and then at lunch, and then while they set up camp, and then when he tried to sleep, since Bruneau had a rather tenuous grasp of basic etiquette. Also, the man always seemed to forget – or not to care – whether he had already related a specific tale.

"One of us has to stay sober," he deadpanned.

"You're no fun," Bruneau grumbled.

"What if I can't shoot straight?"

"Ha! I've seen you! You would hit your target blindfolded!"

Aramis smiled at the compliment, but, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he had been the first one surprised at successfully making the double shot. Everyone had always told him that he was a gifted marksman. Still, he would have never imagined achieving such a tour de force, and couldn't help but wonder how much luck had been involved. Also, he had been reckless beyond belief. Hadn't elaborated any plan when he'd leapt into Bruneau's rescue, hadn't examined the situation beyond counting the visible bandits, had been startled by the third one… Hadn't even secured Ébène, who could have been stolen – again! No matter how skilled and hard-working he was – and his abilities still had to be confronted to real-life circumstances before he would start relying on them – he kept being reminded of his inexperience, and speculated with concern that it could easily cost him his life.

They rode for nearly two hours before drawing near to what looked like an old limestone quarry. Judging by the undisturbed silence, the place was shut down, or at least not in activity at the moment. The sun had started its descent, but it was still early.

"We should set up camp." Aramis advised.

"Now?" Bruneau protested. "We have two good hours of light ahead of us still. If we use them, with some luck, we could be in Taverny by tomorrow evening, and sleep in a proper inn."

"Well… In that case, we should make a detour. This quarry is the perfect place for an ambush."

"Who would ambush me?" the tradesman insisted. "Everybody around here knows François Bruneau. I'm their only connection to the world."

"So you've told me… repeatedly. Remind me again of how we first met."

"That was an unfortunate incident!"

"… following which you hired me for protection."

The merchant smiled carelessly.

"Honestly, lad, I mostly hired you for your conversation."

Aramis had to refrain from a snappy retort. Bruneau was an affable person, but his lack of sobriety – literally  **and**  figuratively – was infuriating. The man seemed incapable of being serious for two minutes. For him, everything was a joke, a frivolity of existence, or even a poem! No matter how amiable it had made him in the beginning, after only a week, Aramis had started to wonder if the constant boasting and the impossibility to hold a serious conversation were not the reasons he spent so much time on the road, away from his doubtless exhausted wife and children. And he **did** hire him for his abilities with pistols! he silently protested. After the attack, the man had been so rattled and his legs so shaky that he was almost incapable of getting off his cart to retrieve the objects they were to leave to the bandits. And now, he was acting like nothing had happened!

"I have passed by this quarry many times," the merchant finally explained. "Nobody ever attacked me."

Aramis sighed. Was he being overcautious? Bruneau was more experienced than him in almost every way. Was it precocious and naïve to challenge his expertise? He settled for a compromise: "Okay. But I will go first to check things out. And you'll load a gun."

"Me?"

"You. Don't try to tell me that you've never shot anyone. I've seen the rifle in your cart…"

"It's a piece of junk! A family heirl…"

"… and you were the one who wanted the two survivors bandits killed."

"By you! You're the one who likes that!"

"What?"

Bruneau, judging by his smiling eyes, was about to add some humorous rejoinder, but he took a breath and, for once, a look at his interlocutor's reaction, before resuming his ramblings. What he deciphered must have been quite unsettling, because he started to stutter:

"Well, I… You… you'd kill any foe in a bl… I mean… You should have seen your face, the other day, when you shot those two ruffians.  _Bang! Bang!_  That seemed so easy, and you looked positively gleeful!"

"I didn't…" Aramis began, but immediately stopped, not sure  **what**  he didn't. Noticing his distress, Bruneau attempted to clarify:

"Hey! I mean that as a compliment. I'm not calling you a cold-blooded murderer! You're obviously an honorable lad and, as you so… candidly pointed out, I was the one suggesting the murder of two unarmed men." At this he crossed himself and looked up, as if to ask God for forgiveness. That did nothing to amend his habit of thinking before speaking, though, since he added: "What I meant was just… Sorry for being blunt, but you obviously have some experience with bloodshed."

In other circumstances, it might have been entertaining to watch such a verbal incontinent as Bruneau at a loss for words, his every addition making things worse. Maybe he didn't hold his drink as well as he believed, Aramis thought, and the man confirmed his suspicions when he added:

"I'm sorry. Forget what I said. You're right. I drink too much."

Aramis had voiced no such thing, but Bruneau's admission gave him some time to collect himself.

_It was so easy._

_I'd never killed a man before but I didn't hesitate. I simply identified the danger and pulled the trigger, as if it had been just another roebuck. And then, even after it was done, I didn't dwell on it._

He  **had**  been a bit shaken, after the incident. Well, it was his first fight to the death, and, an hour or so after they'd moved out of the forest, the memory had left him in a strange state, both dazed and on edge. The merchant had not noticed – or had been gracious enough to pretend he didn't.

But Aramis had only retrospectively feared for his security; and Bruneau's. Was the mere act of taking a life not supposed to make you feel bad?

_It's been a week and not once have I thought about the man I killed._

Well, Bruneau had been pretty upset. Aramis had had to keep his cool to reassure him. That could explain his absence of emotion.

_Horse shit! I haven't even once prayed for his soul!_

He must have looked quite distressed – and he did feel like all blood had left his face – because Bruneau was eyeing him with concern. He had to say something. He had to say something now.

"It's okay," he finally muttered, and then coughed a little to get his voice back. "I was just surprised that you thought… I'm not  **that**  experienced. I'm just very talented," he added with a cocky smile, and the merchant scoffed. "But you're right. It was hardly my first kill."

He wasn't sure Bruneau believed him, but the man was sufficiently relieved to pretend to.

"Well, that's settled, then," the peddler decided. "Let's head for the quarry. And we'll do as you said. You go first, I take the rifle… but I must insist that you should not, in any circumstances, rely on me using that. And don't overthink this, lad. I'm not a fool. I wouldn't purposefully do something that could put us in danger."

x

À Suivre :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tune Bruneau is singing before he meets Aramis is a drinking song from the late 16th century. It's crazy complicated to translate but, basically: "I drink to you my Captain/Let's drink, friends, until there's nothing left/Thank you soldier, let me drink to you in turn."


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay, but, just to keep the record straight: I said that I wouldn't  **purposefully**  do something that could put us in danger. Did you warn me? Yes you did. Did I listen? No I didn't. But, again, this has never, ever happened to me before. Not the ambush, I mean… Of course, I've been ambushed before. But not here. And never twice in a single week… well, two weeks… thirteen days. Was it thirteen days ago that we met? I feel like I've known you for months. That's the thing about friendship, I guess. Good Lord, mind his main gauche! Sorry. I'm… Goddamnit, I can't get the powder in the… My hands are shaking. Stop shaking, stop shaking, you've done this before. Long ago. Good Lord! Ha! Sorry! I thought… Are you alright?"

"Stop talking to me!"

Aramis blocked his attacker's blade and dodged his main gauche for the third time. The pain in his thigh almost made him lose his balance. He had to end it. Fast.

Back at Herblay, his father, and then his instructor, had told him that a real sword fight was quick. You didn't spar with an enemy. You struck to kill, or to incapacitate, at the very least.

He'd put this advice into practice with the first bandit, taking advantage of the man's uncertain step on the slippery ground to drive his sword through his heart. Or close enough. He'd felt the blade meet resistance against a rib, but his imprecise attack had served its purpose. Bruneau's loud cheers had rung in appreciation, and that was when Aramis had noticed that the tradesman was no longer in the woods, where he had expressly ordered him to remain hidden.

Well, at least maybe, from here, he would not miss his second shot.

Aramis would simply have to keep the bandit at bay long enough for the merchant to reload.

He made a forward pass and aimed for the heart but his opponent deflected and counter-attacked. The blade hissed past Aramis' shoulder.

How long could it take to put some bloody power inside the bloody gun barrel and shoot a ten-bloody-feet-close target?

The bandit was far from being the most skilled swordsman he'd ever sparred with, but he was strong and nasty. When his horse had managed to catch up with Ébène, he'd almost stabbed Aramis before he had time to dismount. Now, he was launching a series of compound attacks, feints and coupés that gave his younger opponent very few opportunities to counter. Also, Aramis wasn't used to fighting with both hands. He only employed his dagger to hold his enemy at a safe distance, while the man's main gauche kept threatening his left side any time he got close.

He didn't know what the problem with his leg was. He didn't remember having been injured. The wound was painful, but not incapacitating. Probably not a bullet, then. He'd never been shot but supposed that he would notice if he was. Or maybe the projectile had only grazed his thigh.

"Good Lord! Good Lord! Good Lord!" Bruneau repeated, the panic in his voice almost tangible, and Aramis worriedly felt as if the man was commending his soul to God.

However, the incessant ramblings and pleas managed to have a positive impact on the fight, despite his oponent's experience.

The bandit's eyes didn't leave his target for long, but it was enough.

He glanced at Bruneau. Maybe to ensure the man hadn't yet succeeded in reloading – which was, indeed, hard to believe – or maybe because his blathering was  **that**  annoying.

In any case, this second's distraction was enough for his guard to drop slightly, and for Aramis to drive his blade through his neck.

The bandit stood there, eyes wide open in disbelief, and stayed that way when Aramis removed his sword. A stream of blood rushed from the wound.

"Good Lord!" Bruneau said again, but this time very faintly. "Good… Lord."

The man fell.

Aramis looked down at the body for some time, with a strange mix of anguish and expectation. The man's limbs were still shaking. It was disconcerting to stand there, waiting for someone to take their last breath. The three previous people he had killed had died immediately, and he briefly wondered if he would have been more disturbed if they hadn't.

"That was close," Bruneau mumbled. "God! That was so close! But you were fantastic! Not that I ever doubted your abilities, of course but… Three men! Three! How old are you, again? Were they any good? Fighters, I mean. I don't realize. I've only held a sword once. A customer – a baron's son, if I remember correctly – who insisted on showing me how to fight. He was a funny lad, that one. And I was young, at the time. Anyway. Trust me, I wasn't… and I'm still not eager to repeat the experience. Eh! He almost cut me in half! Ruined a perfectly fine shirt, he did. Now that I think of it, perhaps he only wanted to have a good laugh at my expense."

The postmortem tremors stopped, eventually, and Aramis reviewed his own injury. There was a sizable hole in the left leg of his pants, and the fabric was soaked with blood. He felt a bit dizzy at the sight. Or maybe it was merely the after-effect of the fight and the loss of said blood that was making him lightheaded.

He took a deep breath to pull himself together, then lifted the edges of the torn fabric to have a better look at the wound. It didn't seem very serious. A bullet graze, as he'd suspected. Probably received when he'd run to Ébène to escape the bandits who were pursuing him after he'd shot dead the one who'd tried to stab him when he'd entered the quarry.

The bleeding was lessening now that he'd stopped moving around. Some alcohol and a clean bandage would probably be enough to keep him safe from infection until they made it to Taverny. There, they'd find a doctor.

"I'm still pretty proud of myself, I must say." Bruneau was going on. "I didn't think I would have it in me to shoot."

Or maybe he could try to stitch it himself.

"Well, I missed, obviously, but I like to believe that it slowed him down. I'm happy that you killed him before I'd finished reloading, though. I wasn't particularly fond of the idea of k... of… what?"

Aramis realized that he was now glaring at the merchant with what must be, going by his current feelings, a rather murderous look.

"Thanks…" he started, as he pried the rifle off the man's hand.

"… for…"

He dumped the contents of one of his own powder bags into the barrel…

"… nothing!"

… and used the bag itself as a wadding, then threw the weapon at Bruneau, who almost didn't catch it.

Then, he mounted Ébène, gave her a gentle kick that was enough to send a flash of pain up to his hips, and, leaving the bemused merchant where he stood, headed to the cart.

xxxx

_It's nearly dark. How long to Taverny? Maybe an hour? Can we make it?_

_There's a nice slope here, behind these trees. Perhaps we should set up camp. God! I don't want to sleep in the open!_

"Aramis."

_We would be there already if we had avoided that bloody quarry! We would have found a good inn, asked for two separate rooms, far,_ far _away from each other, and, right now, I'd be enjoying the silence and a hot bath._

"Aramis?"

_My head hurts. I've heard somewhere that blood loss could do that. Did I lose that much? I should ask Bruneau if he thinks I'm pale. Or not. He couldn't see anything in this light. And I don't want to talk to him. How's my leg doing?_

Aramis bent his head to take a look at his thigh and the world tilted dangerously. He held his grip on the reins to regain his balance, took a deep breath, and the dizziness passed.

"Aramis, are you sulking?"

_Christ! Would you shut up?_

"No. I'm thinking."

"I can see that you're mad at me."

_I don't believe this! What age are you? Nine?_

"Aramis?"

"I'm not…" he started helplessly. "I'm tired, that's all! I'm worried that we'll not be able to reach Taverny before night falls, my leg hurts, I don't wanna sleep in the dirt when I'm wounded and there's a town in sight, or there should be, if it weren't so late, and dark, because we were delayed by bandits who nearly killed me, because you didn't want to make a detour to avoid that stupid quarry, and then you missed the man who was after me, and then you failed to reload, and then you treated the whole thing as a joke, so yes, I was sulking, and yes, I'm mad at you!"

Well, it certainly didn't come out as he intended, and he was not pleased by how fraught he sounded by the end of this little outburst. But Bruneau's look of bug-eyed astonishment was worth the embarrassment. The merchant blinked, then reached for his bottle as if he was trying to regain his composure. Midway, he thought better of it and cleared his throat before mumbling:

"I… I still helped."

"You… You didn't… You just…" Aramis stammered, then gave up and spat: "Forget it. Let's move."

"I should tend to your leg."

"We'll find a doctor at Taverny."

"We'll not reach Taverny tonight."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"Well, now you're just being difficult."

"Am not…"

He was. But he couldn't help it. He wasn't supposed to be the grown-up here.

"Listen," he hissed. "I … If we're to keep traveling together, I have to be able to trust you. You can't feed me wild tales and fanciful yarns as if they were real information, and you can't change the plans we agreed on without warning. You sent me into an ambush, it was only sheer luck that I was been able to kill two bandits, and if the third one hadn't taken so much time retrieving his horse, I would have ended up fighting two men with a wounded leg! Just because you'd left your post, which forced me to protect both of us… while you were not even able to reload your own gun."

"Yeeees," Bruneau started. "But I did shoot at them when they were pursuing you!"

"You shot in their general direction." Aramis snapped. "Which also happened to be mine. I guess I should just thank God that you didn't put a bullet between my eyes."

"I told you I wasn't a good shot!"

"You also told me that you were never ambushed, that the quarry was safe, and that you'd stay in the damn woods!"

"You were driving them away from me!"

"Yes, that was the whole point!"

"No, I mean that I couldn't aim."

"As if that would have changed anyth…"

He held his breath as a second spell of dizziness hit him.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Aramis opened his eyes, only then realizing that he had closed them.

"I'm fine," he assured.

"Are you going to pass out?"

"I've just said I was…" he started, then tried to compose himself. "No, I'm not going to pass out. And, even if I was, I venture to hope that you'd be able to carry me into the cart. Or is there a bad back or a weak shoulder that you also failed to mention?"

Well, composed didn't mean civil, did it? Bruneau sighed.

"Look. I'm sorry. What happened was my fault. I swear it's true that I'd never been attacked here in the past, but I risked both our lives because I like to show off. I hired you for your protection, yet I refused to listen to your advice, that was stupid and, again, I'm sorry. I'm not just saying that because I want you to forgive me, I mean it. Now, could we please stop so I can have a look at your leg?"

Aramis didn't have the energy to protest any further. He did believe his wound could wait until they reached an inn, but, as his anger faded, taking any more risks that day seemed irresponsible. Besides, much as he would have liked to make him feel really terrible, Bruneau's burst of sincerity was heart-melting.

The merchant took his silence for the surrender it was, and the younger man followed him as he turned the cart in the direction of the trees. He stopped at the edge of the slope, and took his horses out of their harness while Aramis clumsily dismounted and tied Ébène to some sort of pine-tree. There were quite a lot of conifers in the vicinity. That was uncommon for the region, but, as he sat on the ground and let Bruneau make a fire, Aramis found the resinous smell of the trees and the piney smoke soothing.

He rolled up his trousers' left leg and removed his bandage himself. The ride had made the wound bleed again, but it wasn't warm or itchy. No infection, then. Good, his tired brain mused. It would have been undignified to die from such a minor injury.

When Bruneau had finished setting up camp, he came back with a small leather bag and the flask that they had used to clean the wound earlier. Both items he deposited on the ground. Aramis watched him as he opened what turned out to be a sewing kit. The tradesman handed him the flask. It reeked of strong, bad liquor, and he scrunched his nose.

"Drink," Bruneau insisted. "It will take the edge off."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm inured to pain."

The merchant raised a skeptical eyebrow, but put the flask back on the ground – at arm's reach – and started to get everything ready. When he had finished disinfecting his needle and threading it, he purposefully settled between the wounded man's eyes and his leg. Aramis protested:

"Let me watch."

"Nah! That's not a good idea."

"I want to see how you do it."

The improvised medic sent his patient another dubious look.

"What? I'm curious."

Short of arguments, Bruneau merely shrugged and, probably reasoning that any discussion would keep Aramis' mind off the pain, started to explain:

"So. First, you clean the injury. Even if you did it before."

Action promptly followed word, and Aramis suppressed a hiss as the alcohol burned his exposed flesh.

"You don't want to prick your needle too close to the edge of the wound. That would only tear the skin. But too far back would leave a nasty scar, and I suspect a dandy like you would not like that."

"I'm not…"

"Of course, you have to be careful not to harm the muscle, so don't go too deep either. See? Here. Still not passing out?"

Aramis shook his head.

"Well, don't forget to breathe." Bruneau advised with a smile, and he obeyed.

He hadn't been boasting when he'd said he was resistant to pain. When he was fourteen, he'd fallen from a tree and broken his little finger. Replacing the bone had been agonizing but he had endured it almost without a cry. Although that might have been because his father, who had previously strictly forbidden him to climb the damn thing, was present to witness his misery, it had not taken that much effort. And Bruneau's needle was a mere tickle by compare.

"Some wounds, you'll have to cauterize," the merchant went on. "I hope I'll never have to show you how, but it might be the only way, if it's a mess, or if you don't have a sewing kit at hand. The risk of infection would be higher, mind you, but… Finished."

Aramis' eyes snapped open.

"What?"

"The stitches. Finished," Bruneau repeated, then frowned: "Were you dozing off?"

"I… No?"

This time, the merchant laughed outright.

"I can't believe it! I'm sewing his leg and he's sleeping!"

"I was not… Well, I told you I was inured to pain, didn't I?"

"Did you at least hear anything I said?"

"Yeah, yeah… Not too close, not too far, not too deep, burn it if it's wrecked, something."

Bruneau made an unconvinced "arf" and clapped the younger man's uninjured leg before retrieving some clean bandages from the cart. When he had finished wrapping the wound "Loosely," he explained, "Let it breath until morning."

Aramis wanted nothing more than to call it a night. He thanked Bruneau, and ate the bread and cheese the man gave him, before lying down in his bedroll. Bruneau remained silent the whole time, and Aramis, knowing how unnatural that was for the merchant, had to feel grateful. He closed his eyes. The fresh smell of the pines and the familiar crackle of the burning wood had lulled him into a half-sleep when Bruneau's voice startled him:

"Aramis…"

Well, it had been too good to last.

"What?"

"It was not just luck that you managed to kill the two bandits."

It took some time to his drowsy brain to comprehend the statement. There was a slight slurring in the merchant's voice. He'd been drinking again.

"Please, Bruneau." Aramis finally mumbled. "Let me rest. You weren't there."

"I was in the forest, the other day, when you made the double shot." the man insisted. "I'm a braggart and a drunk, I know that. But I can tell a true warrior when I see one. You're brave and smart, you're an astonishing marksman, and I'm pretty sure you could be almost as good with a sword if you put some extra effort into it. You're gifted, son. With hard work, you could be remarkable."

Aramis closed his eyes, partly out of tiredness, and partly to conceal his emotion. A few seconds later, he felt Bruneau's hand ruffle his hair. He wanted to object to such paternalistic intimacy, but the brief touch was comforting.

"Rest, lad," the man said. "And tomorrow night, we'll be sleeping in real beds."

xxxx

It was almost noon when they arrived at Taverny. They had slept late in the morning, and then spent several hours resting, at Bruneau's insistence. There had been a stream not far. The merchant, likely for the sole purpose of forcing the younger man not to overtax himself, had tried to fish in it with his bare hands, as he'd watched Aramis do twice before. The whole scene had been utterly absurd, especially since Bruneau's large belly got in the way of his seeing the fishes when they got close, and Aramis had to admit he hadn't laughed that hard in years.

His leg still hurt, but only a little, when they made it to the only inn in town, which luckily had a room still available despite the installation of what appeared to be a small country fair.

"Only the one?" Aramis complained.

"I'm deeply sorry, Monsieur," the innkeeper apologized. "We were full, this very morning, until two customers had to leave in a hurry."

Bruneau clapped his young friend's shoulder.

"Relax, lad! I promise I'll ease up on my chitchat"

"Can you promise you'll ease up on your snoring?" Aramis retorted, but took the key with a smile.

He left his stuff in the room, and walked at a brisk limp to the village square. Half a dozen caravans were gathered there, among them those of a food vendor, a woman selling herbs and teas, and what looked like an old fortune teller. He followed a loud banging sound to a large wooden stage. A tall and burly blond man was at work in a crouch underneath the structure, a hammer in his hand and a heavy board on his shoulder. That seemed a bit impractical, even for such a hunk, and Aramis stepped in:

"Hi! Need a hand?"

The man raised his head, as much as could do, bent over as he was. He had a very gentle face and wide, sweet blue eyes, in startling contrast to his massive body. Long curly locks were stuck on his forehead by sweat. He didn't look much more than twenty years old.

"Hi," he simply said, then glanced pointedly at Aramis' leg.

"My arms are fine," Aramis answered the silent question with a smile, displaying his hands by way of evidence. The improvised carpenter smiled in turn and nodded.

They worked for maybe an hour, Aramis nailing the planks while the big man held them. He introduced himself as Juste Jules. "Not ʿJulesʾ," he insisted. "ʿ _Juste_ Julesʾ... Or ʿHerculesʾ, if you prefer, but that sounds a bit pompous offstage."

The consolidation work was almost done when a feminine voice chimed from outside:

"Juste Jules, have you finished?"

"Yeah!" the man shouted. "We're coming!"

Aramis followed him out. There was a young woman waiting for them, a tray in her hands. She might have been about twenty-five. Her skin was dark, like Alice, one of his mother's friends at the house, or those slaves he'd seen once, back at Herblay, on their way to Normandie. He shivered at the memory, and immediately hoped the woman didn't mistake it for a sign of contempt. But the look he caught in her eyes was one of open appreciation.

"Stop lusting at one another!" Juste Jules demanded with mocked outrage. "It makes me feel left out."

Aramis only then realized that he had also been staring. She was beautiful. Lean and muscular, with a generous chest and a thin waist. Long braided hair fell around her gentle face, framing prominent cheekbones. He forced himself to look away but she laughed:

"Don't let him bother you. I'm Nicole."

"Nice to meet you, Nicole," he answered, trying to sound casual. "You can call me Aramis."

She smiled again and her gaze lingered on him. Aramis wasn't used to having people unsettling him, and wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. The two friends didn't seem like they intended to stop surprising him, though, since Nicole raised her tray and asked casually: "Tea, anyone?"

"Tea?" he repeated, noticing incredulously that the beverage was served in mismatched but lovely china.

"Yeah," Juste Jules nodded. "You'll find out Nicole has her quirks."

"You're one to talk!" she shot back.

She placed her load on the stage and the boys sat on it as she filled two cups. One of them had been intended to her, obviously, but she offered it to Aramis and waved his protests away.

Only once before in his life had Aramis drunk tea. It was at some baron's castle, where he had followed his father for… something. He had liked the beverage, but this one tasted very different. There were many herbs in it. Mint, for sure, lemon balm, and others he couldn't identify. It was a traveler's drink, made of wild-growing spices and flowers. Not as exotic as real tea leaves, but warm and comforting.

They talked a little about the fair. Nicole and Juste Jules, along with two more artists, were Les Valentin. Valentin was Nicole's father, she explained, pointing at a tall, handsome man with a fair skin and a pointed white beard who was currently deep in talk with the mayor, near the fortune teller's tent. He was an actor and singer, and had performed in Parisian theaters before falling into disgrace for a reason she didn't share. Nicole was a singer herself, and also had a juggling double act with Juste Jules, who, unsurprisingly, was their strongman. There was a fourth member to their troupe, a little ten-year-old brown boy named Yves, who appeared almost as soon as Nicole mentioned him. He ran in their direction and, as he came closer, Aramis noticed that his overall good looks were somewhat spoiled by a prominent pair of long snaggly front teeth. Aramis jumped from where he was sitting on the stage to greet him, wincing as he was immediately reminded of his injury.

"What's wrong with your leg?" the child asked without preamble. It sounded more like "wazchh wrong wichh throur leg", and he spluttered a bit. Juste Jules also got down off his perch and smacked the back of Yves' head to remind him of his manners. It was a gentle touch, though, from such a big man, and Nicole smiled.

"I rescued a fair maiden from a jealous comte," Aramis answered, and the child's eyes widened for an instant before he scowled.

"I don't believe you."

Nicole laughed.

"Don't ever try to fool an actor," she said, and brushed her skirt to remove the dust from the stage before asking: "Wanna go for a walk with me?"

xxxx

They were strolling along a river when Nicole asked:

"So, what really happened to your leg, if you don't mind telling?"

"I rescued a plump merchant from crass ruffians."

"You're here with Bruneau?"

"You know him?"

"Well, everybody around here knows François Bruneau."

"So I've heard. But I learned the hard way not to put too much faith in his claims."

Nicole smiled.

" _You_  don't look like a travelling salesman."

Aramis wasn't sure what he looked like, but Nicole seemed, again, much appreciative. It had been a long time since he'd let himself be so close to a woman, and that made this one even more disconcerting. She was blunt, yet not rude. There was an unquestionable tenderness in her delicate movements. Her eyes, though, were fierce and proud. He liked that.

"It's a circumstantial association," he answered.

She gave him a quizzical look and he told her about his quest.

He didn't dwell on the depth of his love for Isabelle, but it didn't seem like she would have minded anyway. She listened attentively. Was skeptical when he stated his intention to search for his beloved's relatives in big cities like Troyes and Paris. Still, tried to be supportive. Knowing about Isabelle didn't stop her from eying him, and he found out that he liked that. It was good to feel appreciated by a woman who didn't conceal her desire behind empty words and all-but-subtle innuendos. And she wasn't blatantly attempting to seduce him, anyway. She was polite and friendly and, after an hour or so, he had opened to her more than he had to anyone since Isabelle. When she asked him to meet her again, at the same place, the following day, he eagerly accepted.

When they did, it was her turn to talk about her life. How she had never known her mother, who apparently died in childbirth, how her father had always taken care of her, violently rejecting the advice to get rid of a mixed-race girl, even when it meant missing out on fantastic theatre opportunities. He had given her an education that many bourgeoises would have envied, taught her to read, write, act, sing, ride a horse, recognize the plants that could heal or kill you, hunt, fire a pistol and even fight. "A bit," she added. "I've never been very good at it. But I did break the nose of a drunkard once, who'd been too insistent. Juste Jules was impressed!"

The next day was the one many officials were to be present to to open the fair. Nicole would be too busy to meet him in the afternoon, so, they settled for a picnic instead. Aramis, for his part, had all the time in the world since Bruneau, despite his vehement protests, had insisted on staying in Taverny until his leg was better. With his reputation and ability to talk the hind legs off a donkey, the merchant had had no difficulties in securing himself a place near the cook's stall, and was certain to make generous profits. When Aramis, still limping a bit, was greeted by Nicole and insisted on carrying her heavy basket, he noticed that Juste Jules was looking at them unhappily. There was no threat in his sad eyes, but a visible sense of loss. When they arrived at their usual meeting point, near the stream, he asked, in the direct, liberating way they had grown accustomed to talk together:

"Is Juste Jules jealous?"

Nicole, who was uncorking the wine, raised an eyebrow.

"Jealous?" she repeated, as if the idea was preposterous. But then, she remained silent for a second, and seemed to realize something. "Well, he might be…" she amended. "Of me."

It took a while for Aramis to comprehend the statement. When he did, he merely blurted stupidly:

"Really?"

"Are you offended?" Nicole asked. She was amiable, but there was an edge in her voice.

"No," he answered honestly. "It's just I…  _Really_?" he repeated incredulously, and the woman smirked.

"Are you flattered?" she then wondered.

He didn't hesitate for long and laughed.

"Actually, yes, I think I am!"

This time, he told Nicole about his mother.

xxxx

When they came back from their lunch, before waving Nicole goodbye, he went to talk to Juste Jules, wished him good luck for the evening representation, and assured him that he was impatient to watch his performance. The young man seemed delighted, and Aramis had a smile on his face when he climbed the steps to the room he shared with Bruneau.

He wasn't prepared, when he closed the door behind him, to be welcomed by the butt of a pistol slamming down against his temple.

He tried to turn to confront his aggressor, but his vision had already blurred, and another blow sent him right to the floor. His last coherent thought, before darkness claimed him, was that he wouldn't be there to see Nicole and Juste Jules perform their act.

x

À Suivre :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Juste Jules", as you might have guessed, is "just Jules" in French.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

He woke to a wall of cold water hitting his face.

For a moment, he was only able to gather that he was conscious – more or less – and that something was wrong. His head was pounding, he felt very close to throwing up, and the only things he was aware of were the clammy dampness on his face and lap and a vague brownish shade in his rather limited field of vision.

_Okay._

_Think._

_Try to think, even if it hurts._

He’d been knocked out. Which explained almost all of the aforementioned oddities. The brown was probably simply his pants, and his visual range was already starting to return to normal.

He was fine, considering. Or would be, once he could lift his head.

The only alarming matter was that he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what had happened.

The last thing he remembered was having lunch with Nicole, who was teasing him for his good looks, telling him about Jules’ preferences and inviting him to what she called “the première”, even if there would be no more than a second and a third. Had they been attacked? Had she been able to run away? Was she all right? Why would anybody want to hurt them?

Voices, in the background, added to his growing alarm:

“..akeupboy,” one said. It echoed, and not just in his aching head.

_Where am I?_

“… ivhim time,” another advised, more clearly. “You hit him pretty hard.”

“I did what I had to do! Don’t you remember what he did to Jean and Alain?”

“Maybe we should try another bucket…”

Oh, yes. The water.

Someone had done that.

That meant that whoever it was, they wanted him awake and aware.

“Wha…” he started, and felt a hand grabbing his hair and pulling his head back.

“OW!” he cried, then blinked to clear his vision again, and managed to make out a smirking face.

“See? He’s awake,” the man said, and Aramis was finally able to straighten his neck and observe his captors.

The one who had grabbed him had the most ordinary face he’d ever seen. Almost perfectly oval, with fair, unmarked skin, and dull eyes of a washed-out brown color, which showed a lack of strong opinions rather than of intelligence. He was either bald or shaved his hair, and, even in his current dominant position, failed to look self-assured. The other one was a different matter entirely, with his well-cut dark blond beard, his muscular but delicate body and his very precise way of moving.

“You with us, lad?” he asked. Despite a lingering peasant accent he did his best to conceal, his speech was smooth and polite. Aramis nodded, immediately regretting the motion, but not trusting his voice at that point. He had no idea why he’d been taken prisoner but his instincts assured him that the more confident he sounded, the better his chances of surviving this ordeal.

“Good.” the blond man said. “Now, tell me: where is the gold?”

“What gold?”

Even before the backhand violently connected with his cheek, Aramis’d known it was the wrong answer. Yet, as he waited for the spots of light distorting his vision and the heat spreading on his skin to fade away, he still couldn’t come up with a better one.

What was this refined brute talking about?

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re alone, bound and hurt. You have no idea who we are. Of course you wouldn’t spill to total strangers.”

There was a very dangerous edge to his voice, and Aramis knew that he should probably be more afraid than he was. The man was polite, and, even without the slap, only a fool would have taken such almost exaggeratedly exquisite manners for anything but what they were: an act, by an unstable and dangerous person. Yet, Aramis wasn’t really paying attention to the threat, his eyes roaming over the small room of their own volition, his mind registering every detail that could be of help if he succeeded in freeing himself: a pile of rubble in a corner, a narrow semicircular window, high up in the stone wall, that he might be able to slip through, the wooden chair he’d been sat on with which he could… hit someone? What was this place? The chill and the dim light suggested some kind of basement. His captors had knives on their belts, but no swords… He tried to move his wrists and didn’t find his bindings to be especially tight. Would he be able to remove them? He briefly wondered if any of the Valentins would have known that kind of trick. The blond man spoke again, distracting him from his renewed worry for Nicole:

“No, you wouldn’t tell us immediately,” he rephrased. “That would be stupid. You wouldn’t have any leverage, after that. I mean… we could kill you, once you’d given us what we want. Isn’t that what you thought? That’s smart. You do look like a smart boy.”

Aramis hadn’t noticed the bald man moving, but he could hear him, now, chuckling behind him. He shivered. He could deal with a danger facing him, but not seeing his enemy **was** frightening.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, you know,” the blond man facing him carried on. “I don’t like it. It’s cruel, and I try, very hard, not to be cruel. The thing is, we really need this gold, and we’re kinda… _damn_ sick and tired of lookin’ for it, y’know,” he blurted suddenly, his voice getting rather high-pitched, before he coughed softly. “We know you’re with him,” he stated, collected again. “You’ve been with him for almost a month. He paid you to protect him. He paid you with something, right? He paid you well, I hope, for the work you’ve done so far! So, I’ll ask one more time: where does he hide the gold?”

Bruneau. These men were after Bruneau. That meant that Nicole was safe! Probably. But Bruneau had no gold! He was relatively wealthy for a commoner, but that was because he was good at his job, right? _Everybody around here knew François Bruneau_ , and gathered to buy his quality merchandise and listen to his fanciful news of the world. For a very stupid moment, Aramis wondered if he should have asked more money for his services. Was killing people, getting shot at and putting up with constant babbling worth gold? He forced himself to focus on his current indignity:

“I have seen no gold,” he said. “I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about. I met François Bruneau by accident. I saved his life and he offered me…”

He was suddenly interrupted by another blow, this time on the back of his skull.

“You saved his life and killed four of our brothers!”

Aramis couldn’t help a gasp as the hand – or fist – collided with the lump already on his head. For a second, he feared he was going to pass out. He swallowed hard to keep himself from vomiting and breathed sharply in and out, more loudly than he’d wish, but not especially caring. For the first time, he seriously wondered if he was going to die here.

_I can’t._

_I haven’t found Isabelle._

_And I must know for sure that Nicole is safe and sound._

_Think._

_Think, think, think._

_Four_ , the brute had said. It seemed that the man on the horse hadn’t survived his wound, after all. For an odd reason, Aramis felt a bit guilty. He had refused to kill the bandits, yet left them alone and naked in the damp, cold woods, one of them bleeding to death. But hey, his honor was safe! snapped a sarcastic voice in his head. He chased it away.

“I… I didn’t attack them,” he argued. He could perceive the bald man moving, behind his back, and shouted: “I didn’t! I know that’s not what you want to hear but it’s true! They shot at me! We were traveling and they acted like common highwaymen! I had no idea about any… gold, and I merely defended myself. And, you don’t have to believe me, but I offered to spare them!”

_Well, at least I offered to spare the first three._

The blond man held up his hand, maybe to stop an outraged – or violent – reaction from his partner, and gave a satisfied grin. He probably thought that his captive was now too scared to resist. That was a blow to Aramis’ pride, and he was tempted to give the bandit an extensive piece of his mind. Nevertheless, appearing weak might be his way out of this mess, after all, so he carried on:

“My only wealth is my weapons and my horse. Bruneau never gave me anything more than a modest fee and food. And…” he hesitated for a second, but the need to understand was stronger than his caution: “And I can’t picture him as a thief.”

The bearded man didn’t get angry. He kept smiling.

“No,” he said. “Bruneau is a nice fellow. He’s affable and funny, always has a kind word for everyone and grants you credit when you’re having a bad year. Hey! He’s even a friendly drunk! He wouldn’t steal. He wouldn’t lie. And he certainly wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Well,” Aramis started in spite of himself, his throbbing leg having promptly made itself remembered. He couldn’t help but lower his head and notice that he had bled a little again. Being unconscious and dragged he-didn’t-know-how to he-didn’t-know-where must have torn the stitches.

“Go fetch him,” the blond bandit said, and the other one barked:

“You’re not in charge here, mate.”

“Yet, I was the who came up up with a successful plan, wasn’t I?”

The bald man grumbled something unintelligible before complying with a glare. The would-be leader smiled cockily, but seemed visibly relieved when his accomplice disappeared through a small wooden door in the shadows. There was no established hierarchy among these men. Aramis wondered if that was a fact he could use.

Left alone with his captive, the bandit returned to his earlier mutism. Aramis cautiously glanced at him, keeping his head down in order to look submissive, which was alarmingly easy at the moment. His accomplice away, the man didn’t appear as collected as he had before. He showed no anger or aggressiveness, but the stiffness in his limbs and the tightening at the corner of his lips, that he bit at from time to time, were unmistakable evidence of his frayed nerves. When the other fellow came back, he was accompanied by a big, muscular guy with a long mustache and dull face. The brute was forcefully dragging by the arm a bleeding and staggering older man who, despite his discomfort, gave Aramis a remorseful look.

“Bruneau! Are you alright?” he blurted out without thinking – and almost rolled his eyes at his own stupidity.

The merchant had the good grace to chuckle, but it sounded like he was trying to spit a loose tooth from his bleeding mouth. The right side of his face was a gigantic bruise, he was limping badly, his left arm bent at a strange angle around the elbow, and it was visible that at least some of his fingers had been broken. This pathetic sight made Aramis forget his throbbing head and nausea for a moment. Bruneau was forced to sit on the floor, and the big man used a rope hanging at his belt to tie his wrists and feet together, with no consideration for his state. The tradesman cried miserably when his injured arm was pulled in front of him, then moaned as he was forced to curve his back to ease the pain caused by his bounds.

“We’ll let you two talk,” the blond man said, and gestured for his fellow bandits to follow him. Both obeyed, the bald guy once again with obvious reluctance but, this time, not uttering a word.

The door closed, and Aramis, not giving a damn if confronting Bruneau was exactly what their captors wanted him to do, almost yelled:

“Did you rob these men?” Then, when the poor merchant shuffled painfully to look him in the eye, he added more quietly: “And what did they do to you?”

The tradesman ignored the second question and replied: “I… didn’t… rob them. The gold was… their master’s. He died.”

Aramis was so horrified that he paid no mind to the pain in the man’s voice.

“What do you mean “he died”? Did you rob his body?”

“No! Of… of course I didn’t! I took his gold w… when… Let me explain!”

“Oh, please do”

Bruneau took a deep breath, which made him wince when his ribs moved, but steadied his voice a bit.

“He was my employer. A good man. Well, an honest man. When he died, his men refused to pay me and I… I knew where he kept his gold. Long story, but he trusted me. He would have wanted me to have it.”

“I’m sure he would,” Aramis snapped. “And you took it? What was this job anyway, that was so generously rewarded?”

“I took my due… and a bit more.” Bruneau admitted, and Aramis was about to give him a rather colorful piece of his mind, when he became aware that the man had just easily confessed to a larceny that could get him hanged... and not answered his second, fairly simple, question.

“What was this job?” he asked again.

Bruneau sighed.

“It was… I… Promise you won’t get mad.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I helped them!” the merchant cried. “His people… and others, they were persecuted! The King sends men to confiscate their goods and burn their houses… They’re on the road, stripped of everythin’, children and elderly… Can’t even talk to one another. He was a Comte, of very old nobility, so he was safe, as long as he kept his beliefs to himself. But that didn’t mean he could openly oppose the King’s will. So… I sometimes took a child with me, or a bunch of letters. Then, I’d meet with another fellow on the road who would take over. There was no…”

“What the Hell are you talking about?” Aramis asked, knowing the answer pretty well but needing to hear it to admit it. “Were you plotting against the Crown?”

“No! Well… technically…”

“Are you a Protestant?”

“No! No, I… Oh, God! I’m sorry, lad! I just wanted to help!”

To help the Protestants, Aramis mentally rephrased. But no questions asked. Carrying letters that might have been incitements to revolt. Not caring if anyone else got hurt so long as buying himself an easy conscience was actually making him richer.

“Don’t try to cast yourself in some glorious role.” he hissed. “Do I look that naive? I’ve seen how you behave in the face of danger. You seriously think I’d believe that you risked your life for someone else’s cause?”

There was a flash of hurt pride in the tradesman’s eyes, but he lowered his head in the following heartbeat.

“I did want to help,” he muttered. “Was it so bad to be rewarded for it?”

“I guess saving lives was not enough.”

“You’re unfair.” Bruneau murmured. But there was no anger on his face anymore. Aramis wished that there were. That would have meant he was at least a bit wrong. That the man he had started to like, in spite of all his flaws, was a hero of some sort. A simple merchant who’d had lived an honest but selfish life and, time going by, overcome his fears and peaceful nature for the greater good. That would have meant that, consequently, he himself was not on the verge of being murdered merely because he’d been stupid enough to trust a notorious smooth talker, but because he was caught up in a noble cause.

“You just saw a way to get rich,” he persisted. “You didn’t think you would be caught, so it didn’t matter if it meant helping a bunch of fanatics to gather and plot against your country.”

“They’re not fanatics! I mean… some are but… Most of these people are farmers, merchants, and daughters and sons of low nobility… They just want to live in peace and get their children to safety. And me… I was always on the road and I had harbored travelers in the past. Nobody should have noticed anything odd. And there was no harm done.”

Aramis sighed. Whether it was his injuries or this conversation he didn’t know, but he suddenly felt very tired.

“How could you drag me into this?”

“I didn’t really expect them to kidnap you.” Bruneau protested with a smile, and Aramis was overcome by a burst of anger:

“You saw me pray every day!” he almost yelled, not caring if the bandits heard him. “You knew my faith was important to me! Did it occur to you that I might not wish to be involved in such a scheme?”

At this, Bruneau seemed totally lost.

“I… I honestly didn’t think you would mind.”

Was that disappointment? Aramis blushed and wasn’t sure if he wanted to slap the tradesman for daring to judge him or himself for caring.

He had never held any ill-will against the Protestants. Never felt threatened by other beliefs, or lack thereof. A lot of the men and women, at the brothel he had grown up in, were not very religious. Despite the strength of his own faith, he had never tried to convince them. His mother had been more rigid. She would have befriended people, and taken good care of them, no matter what, but would not have accepted her beliefs being challenged. Whereas he liked to talk about things that mattered to him, and religion was one of them. Exchanging views with Protestants was not frightening. If anything, it reinforced his love for God.

Still, he knew that religion alone was not the reason for this century-long animosity. Powerful Protestant families had always been plotting against the Crown. He doubted, and that was an understatement, that an open conflict was the solution. After all, both sides had left things at a relative peace for years. That was before Marie de Médicis' influence on her son, as it was rumored, had increased. But he believed he understood why the King wouldn’t risk a civil war over the safety of a few of his subjects.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have minded.” he finally admitted. “If what you... If the things you say these people endure is true… Maybe I would have helped you if you had asked, but that’s not the point because you didn’t! You didn’t give a damn about my beliefs, or my feelings. I saved your life twice and all that mattered to you was how you could use me.”

His voice had grown a bit shrieky and he stopped talking. He wished he could blame his physical condition for his outburst, but knew the blows he’d taken had very little to do with it. He was a child, risking a bullet in the head here or the gallows if he escaped, and getting mad about how his feelings had been neglected.

Bruneau merely lowered his head.

They remained silent for a minute, the merchant probably too tired and injured, and Aramis too emotional, to carry on. When the bandits didn’t reappear, the young man tried to pull himself together. His skull still hurt but his leg was fine, and he didn’t feel dizzy anymore. He took some deep breaths to clear his thoughts again, and looked at the battered form in front of him.

_Battered._

His fingers **were** broken. It must have been extremely painful.

But Bruneau was no hero.

He wouldn’t hold a sword, was afraid to shoot and, in the forest where they had met, had begged the burglars for mercy.

He was no hero.

“Bruneau?”

The tradesman raised his head, his eyes filled with hope for forgiveness and renewed friendship.

Well, that would be destroyed pretty fast, Aramis thought sadly, and asked:

“Do you still have the gold?”

The man blinked owlishly, visibly wondering what was behind this question, before answering:

“I do.”

“Then why didn’t you give it to them?”

“Well, I… They… I didn’t know if they wouldn’t just murder me if I did.”

Aramis raised his brows.

“So you… chose to let them torture you?”

“Yeah! I mean… I… I figured I might… buy time. That you would rescue me? Or something.”

That was a lot of hesitations for such a skilled babbler. Aramis was young and inexperienced, but he was no fool.

“Who are you protecting?” he asked.

He had expected another round of blathering, but Bruneau actually seemed to relax. He smiled sadly and muttered:

“No one.”

“Don’t lie to me again! You’re not a warrior, Bruneau. You’re not even a fighter. Yet, you stole a powerful man’s gold and, when caught, chose to endure a beating rather than telling where it is. You wouldn’t have been this brave if it was not for someone who scares you more than this lot.”

“Well, that’s a nice opinion you have of me.”

Had he not been restrained, Aramis would have dragged the man to his feet and shook him until he shared his secrets.

_What are you hiding from me?_

_Just spit it out, for God’s sake!_

_I need to know what I’m dealing with! I can’t help you if you don’t trust me! We’re trapped here, and hurt! Not traveling into the forest, fully armed, to fight the burglars who…_

He stopped and thought a minute. There must have been a significant change on his face because Bruneau’s eyes went wider in expectation... or worry.

“I know where the gold is.”

“What?” the merchant croaked.

“I know where it is. You told the bandits, back in the forest. They were threatening to shoot you and you said where you hid it. I don’t know why you did then and not now, but I heard you.”

Bruneau’s face fell, and it looked like even his bruises got paler.

“Aramis,” he panted. “I’m begging you, don’t tell them.”

“Why? It’s not my gold. It’s not even yours! You’re wealthy, for God’s sake! Why would you risk your life for money you don’t need?”

Bruneau seemed so hurt and conflicted that, for a moment, Aramis believed that he would confess. But, instead, the tradesman said weakly:

“They will kill us anyway.”

“Well, maybe they’ll only kill **you**!”

He regretted his words immediately, but his anger was too profound now to permit him to amend them.

He had to escape. There was no way he would die here, paying for another man’s mistakes, a man who was not his friend and, in the span of less than a month that they had known each other, had almost gotten him killed three times. He would not be able to remove his bindings, at least not without injuring his wrists. Even if he did, he was in no state to confront these strong and healthy men with little to lose, having no weapons and a concussion.

So…

“Come back!” he yelled, and Bruneau shouted: “No!” but he insisted: “I know you’re listening. Come here! I’ll tell you where the gold is!”

There was a voice calling someone else behind the door, then a discussion he couldn’t make out because the merchant kept begging him. The three men came in at last, the blond again leading the way. He totally ignored Bruneau’s pleading form and stepped in front of Aramis, smiling as always.

“So. Did your little chat with your _friend_ change your mind?”

“It did,” Aramis replied, doing his best to concentrate on his anger instead of his guilt. “I know where he keeps the gold and I’m willing to tell you.”

He heard four “no”s from Bruneau before the big man shut him up with a punch. The tradesman didn’t pass out but fell on his side and remained there, sobbing.

“So go on then,” the blond exhorted.

“Untie me and I’ll show you.”

The three bandits laughed at once.

Well, it was never gonna be that easy.

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t kill me as soon as I tell you? You’ve said yourself that you could.”

“That’s a good point,” the blond admitted, and added with an amused voice: “Even if, actually, we would probably rather wait until we’re sure that you didn’t send us on a wild goose chase. But we’re not the liars in this room, if you think about it.”

“You’re the bandits.”

“Desperate times, desperate measures…”

There was a movement around Bruneau, and Aramis knew that the other two men had started to lose patience. But he couldn’t just give away the only thing that kept him and the merchant alive without at least winning his hands and legs set free.

So, he tried his luck:

“If I lead you to the gold, would you let me join you?”

“What?” the blond asked, so surprised it was almost comical.

“I was with Bruneau because I had no choice. I had run away from home, I was broke and hungry. He hired me to protect him, but, if I’m to be associated with thieves, I would rather be with people of honor who would not put their little secrets before the safety of their friends. I… I...”

“Please, do go on,” the blond said, sensing his hesitation and visibly amused.

“I don’t want to risk my life for a fat selfish bastard who wouldn’t even share his loot and…”

_Well… Here goes nothing._

“… and made me kill four good men who only tried to get back what he took from them.”

The silence that followed was occasionally interrupted by Bruneau’s whimpers, but that made it no less deafening. Then, the bald man rushed at Aramis and grabbed his collar, putting him to his feet despite the chair. The sudden movement made the world spin, and the bandit’s yelling ringed in his aching head.

“Who do you think you are, you little…”

“I can help!” Aramis exclaimed, and his voice hastened. “I can cook and mend clothes. I never panic, I’m not afraid to die if it’s for a cause I chose… and I may not be a Protestant but I choose not to let other human beings get abused! I speak two languages and read three! I can ride, I can fight, and I’m a terrific shot!”

“You’re nothing but a boaster with a big mouth!”

“Go ask your dead friends if I am!”

Well, **that** was incredibly stupid. The bald man released his grasp and Aramis, bound to the unbalanced chair, only just managed to stiffen his neck to avoid his head hitting the stone floor. But when he looked up through the wet strands that had fallen in his face, the blond seemed pleased.

“We could use a good shot,” he said.

“Nicolas! You’re not serious!” the other exclaimed.

“I am. And I hope you’re considering it too,” he added dangerously, “since you’ve just told him my name.”

The bald man shrugged:

“He won’t repeat it to anyone if he’s dead.”

The blond… Nicolas… ignored him and focused once more on Aramis.

“There’s only one thing. Why would a good Catholic boy like you, whose faith is _so important to him_ , partner with us?”

The young man immediately regretted his loud outburst against Bruneau, but didn’t let it show. It was easy for him, he realized, to control his fears in such a dreadful situation. He felt wittier, braver… and maybe more alive for it.

“Are you planning to ban me from praying?” he asked simply.

At that, surprisingly, Nicolas seemed to hesitate. It was the bald man who grunted: “‘course not!”

“Well, I’m not either.”

“As I was saying,” Nicolas stepped in again, “we could use a good shot. But it would be a very, very big mistake to think we're stupid, lad.”

Aramis remained silent but composed, until the bandit, without taking his eyes off him, ordered:

“Yves, go fetch four pistols.”

The brute left the room again and the bald man grunted before moving behind the chair. Aramis heard a blade being unsheathed, then felt it between his hands, working on the rope. When it was removed, he rubbed his wrists and tried to get up. Nicolas took a step back to allow him to test his legs. He swayed a bit, but a few breaths were enough to steady him. Bruneau was still hunched on his side, where he’d fallen, awake, but utterly cowed. Yves returned and gave one pistol to each man, and another to Aramis. It was one of his own weapons, he noticed, a fact that told a lot about these men’s lack of means. He was only allowed to load after the bandits had and, when he was done, three barrels were aimed at him. He couldn’t help but chuckle:

“I must say that it’s quite gratifying to be considered such a threat.”

“Don’t push your luck, lad,” Nicolas warned, and added: “Well, time to prove yourself.”

Aramis frowned. The room was barely a hundred feet wide.

“What do you want me to shoot at here?”

The bandit smiled once again, but this was a very new grin. He seemed impatient, excited, and very, very pleased.

“I have few doubts about your skills,” he explained. “It’s not your aim I’m testing.”

Still smirking, he nodded in the direction of Bruneau.

“Shoot him.”

x

À suivre :)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I have a slight ethical issue with the conflict between Catholics and Protestants, a conflict that I can’t simply not talk about because I plan to write the early years of Aramis in the military (he says in the show that he was at La Rochelle, Montauban and Riez, all battles against Protestants). Whichever way you look at it, and even if, as I mentioned, the conflict went beyond religious oppositions, the Catholics and, mostly, the Crown were the bad guys there. Catholicism was (and still is) the dominant religion in France, Louis XIII was the one choosing to put a term to years of relative peace, and he really did oppress the Protestants. I won’t get very historical in this fic, but I decided to focus on the most political aspects of this conflict, while addressing the human ones with empathy, out of respect for my Protestant readers (and for anyone who would not like a religion being depicted as a threat for the sake of entertainment, which I surely would not). I hope I’m doing a good job at it.
> 
> Some action to come in the next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

Bruneau didn't try to move. He didn't try to shout, or beg, or insult them. He didn't even meet Aramis' eyes. He merely remained on his side, on the ground, his own eyes staring at something nobody but – maybe – him could see, waiting.

Waiting for Aramis to pull the trigger.

The young man didn't raise his pistol and Nicolas spoke:

"I said: shoot him."

There was no aggressivity in his voice. No visible impatience. Not even a threat. He didn't have to emphasize his warning. Everybody in the room knew what would happen if Aramis failed to obey.

And yet…

"No."

Nicolas sniggered, and the big man adjusted his grasp on his own pistol.

"That would be stupid," Aramis developed, trying very hard to keep his voice even. "We need him. What if I'm wrong about the place he hides his gold?"

"If you're wrong, you're dead, lad."

"Well, that's up to you, but you still won't have the money."

That, dropped as carefree as it was, succeeded in making the three bandits flinch, so Aramis decided to push his luck: "We should take him with us. When we get close to what I believe is the hiding place, one of you can stay with him, and the other two will come with me. If I'm right, you can kill him, and If I'm not…"

"You will tell us where to find the gold, and wait here while we go retrieve it," Nicolas interrupted. "If we find it, you're free to join us.  **If** you make your commitment clear. Now…"

"But you won't find it! I have to show you the place, and then we'll…"

"Enough!" Nicolas snapped. "And no more "we." You're not one of us yet, not by a long shot. And speaking of shooting. Stop stalling and kill the fat wuss!"

At these words, and to his own surprise, Aramis actually considered obeying the order. Why risk his life for the fool who repeatedly almost got him killed? If he didn't execute Bruneau, they were both as good as dead anyway! Wasn't one death better than two, especially if said death was the one of the man responsible for this mess? His hesitation was over in a heartbeat, but gave him the impulsion he needed to rise his gun. He aimed it at Bruneau, hoping that his face showed some kind of palpable determination instead of the overwhelming distress he was going through.

He had no idea what to do.

Everything logical in him screamed to shoot the injured merchant, but he simply couldn't. He couldn't in cold blood kill a harmless man who wouldn't even look at him. He couldn't murder his way out of this mess, he had no idea what to do, there was no way to escape, he would never find Isabelle, never attend Nicole's performance, never drink her tea or chat with Juste Jules anymore, never meet Valentin, never learn what toothy Yves did on stage, and never see his father again, never know if Marie and Charles would manage to save the estate despite Phébus's selfish lunacy, and why did he care, he'd renounced his name to never have to think about those people and lands in his life so why, of all moments, was that coming back to him now?

He heard Nicolas' voice repeating the order. Heard it threatening him, even if he couldn't make out the words through the blood pounding in his ears. His head hurt so much he felt almost dizzy.  _Maybe if I swoon like a damsel in distress, I'll just miss the idiot? I can't kill him. I can't kill him and I'm gonna die for nothing and will never have accomplished anything in my life. Look at me, Bruneau. Please, look at me! You have to help me on this. Don't give me those shifty, bleary eyes, he's asking me to shoot you, for Christ's sake! Do something! I'm gonna die because I refuse to rid the world of you and your nonsensical schemes! Could you at least show me some consideration? I think I'll turn my weapon on Lucien. He's so strong. I would never get a chance to overpower him. No, that's dumb. I won't be able to kill more than one, anyway. Let's put the bullet between Nicolas' eyes, he seems the most dangerous one. The other two will still shoot me, but maybe I will have saved some future innocent. Look at me! I'm gonna die for you! Yes, Nicolas, I can hear you! "Do it! Do it!" Yes, I'm gonna do it, and you'll see what "it" is, you crazy bastard. Bruneau! Look at me! Help me! I'm going to do it!_

_Damn you!_

_Look._

_At._

_Me._

And Bruneau looked.

It was very sudden, and his gaze was still blurry with tears, but now firmly fixed on Aramis.

And he didn't seem dazed anymore. Only… surprised? but alert. It looked like he was asking something.

_"What can I do to help you?"_ Aramis read on his face, because that was what he desperately wanted to see there.

_"I don't know,"_ he replied silently. " _That's the whole point! You're the man of experience, here. I'm gonna die with you if you don't help!"_

So, Bruneau came to the rescue.

To Aramis' amazement, he acted, and finally did his best to save the young friend who had tried till the last minute to spare his miserable existence.

But Bruneau was no warrior. He was not brave, he was not strong, and he would have been smart only if there had been some method to talk his way out of this.

He could not, for the literal life of him, get up and fight his tormentors.

He could not fool them.

So, he did something very Bruneau.

He screamed.

He screamed, a high-pitched, earsplitting, ululating cry, and that was so sudden and weird that Aramis at first didn't comprehend the message and simply froze, eyes wide open, wondering what had gotten into the tradesman. Thankfully, the three bandits were even more taken aback. And, when the screech didn't cease and Nicolas finally stepped forward, his pistol risen, to make his prisoner shut up, Aramis shot Lucien.

The loud report rang out in the small room, slicing through Aramis' pounding head, and Nicolas and the bald man froze. The brute also, actually, before incredulously looking down at his bloodstained chest and then falling over? The movement finally caught the eyes of his associates, but it was too late: Aramis had already dropped his now useless pistol and seized Nicolas under the chin. He tried to remember how his combat instructor once told him you should put your arm in order to strangle an enemy, a move the certainly-not-nobility-thank-you-very-much-yet-still-honorable side of him had considered shameful at the time, but that suddenly proved itself marvelously useful. Nicolas choked and released his hold on his weapon enough for his young opponent to grasp it and point it at his temple.

"Stay where you are!" Aramis shouted at the bald man, who was already aiming his own pistol at him.

The order proved remarkably ineffective. If anything, it seemed to enrage the bandit even more.

_There is no hierarchy amongst them_ , Aramis remembered.

_That was supposed to be something **I** could use._

"Don't move! Do you want me to blow his brains out?"

_Actually, maybe you should. You don't like him, and that would give you the occasion to kill me and get all the gold for yourself._

Fortunately, his adversary hadn't reasoned quite as coldly nor so far ahead. He halted and asked:

"How far d'you think you're gonna make it?"

_Well, it will depend on Bruneau being able to shift his lazy ass out of here, and on the two of us not passing out on the way, but I should manage._

"I'm resourceful. Now drop your weapons. Both of you!"

Nicolas complied immediately, struggling a bit to unbuckle his belt. When his associate seemed to hesitate, he barked, as much as he could in his position: "What are you waiting for? Do as he says!"

Even such a strangled shout rang painfully in Aramis' aching head. He winced, hiding slightly behind his hostage to conceal his discomfort. How long would it be before his last desperation-supplied energy deserted him? He was already leaning a little on Nicolas to keep himself upright. He would have to help Bruneau back to Taverny. It was a small town. Their captors could never have holed up there. How far would they have to go, hurt and alone? Maybe they could steal the bandit's horses? Would Bruneau be able to ride? No way. It would be a miracle enough if he could walk. Aramis would have to put him on his own mount and keep him on the saddle.

Thankfully, the bald man finally dropped his pistol with a grunt. He seemed strangely dispassionate, for someone whose associate had just been murdered and who was about let a fortune slip through his fingers. But Aramis had no time to spare on this kind of consideration.

"Now, use your dagger and release Bruneau," he ordered. "And if you even think of injuring him, it's your brain I'll splatter across the wall!"

Once again, the bandit complied. Bruneau couldn't hold in a whine when he not-so-gently pulled on the ropes to help them give way, but, this time, he didn't sob. The bald man got back on his feet and threw the blade away, probably seeing no reason to make things easier for his enemies. It slid and went under the remains of some piece of furniture.

_A cellar? An attic?_ Aramis wondered again.  _Where are we?_

_Well, we'll figure soon enough._

"Bruneau, can you stand up?"

_Please, please tell me you can._

_I have no idea what to do if you can't._

The tradesman grunted something unintelligible and, laboriously, using his elbows for support, picked himself up. Once on his feet, he remained stooped and swayed a little, but didn't fall. Aramis heaved a sigh of relief, only to pray that neither bandit heard him.

"Do you think you can gather up their guns and a blade?"

"Wonbleolem," the merchant mumbled, his voice shaking.

"Come again?"

"Won't be… able to… hold… 'em."

_Of course you won't! I've seen your fingers! Even when they weren't broken you couldn't shoot a man six feet away!_

He couldn't help but still be furious at Bruneau. He wanted to snap at him, be as mean and unfair to him as he could, say anything that might hurt him. He couldn't remember ever having gone through such emotions before, not even after arguing with Phebus. He hated it, and hated even more not being able to figure why he felt like this.

"I don't want you to hold them," he answered, as serenely as he could. "I want you to give them to me."

Bruneau nodded faintly, not raising his head, and Aramis was not sure whether it was because he was too weak or because he wouldn't meet his eyes. The merchant managed to somehow seize the weapons between his wrists and arms and, for a moment, the young man wondered if there was a risk he might shoot himself. Pushing the worry away, he motioned him to move behind him. His forearm remaining under Nicolas' throat, and his other hand still on the trigger, he stepped back until his heel hit the door. Just as he wondered how to get the door open without dangerously loosening his hold on their hostage, Bruneau fortunately started to become a more active participant in his own rescue and tried the door handle himself. That brief spurt of gratitude quickly turned into a surreal sense of pained disbelief as, behind him, Aramis heard the pistol and dagger clattering to the ground and Bruneau's muttered profanity at his useless hands. He almost  _giggled_ from sheer nervous stress.

This was the worst escape ever! He didn't know where he was or where to go, was so afraid that Nicolas would get free if he loosened his grasp that his articulations were starting to hurt from the tension, and had no idea how to neutralize the bandits until he found a way to flee.

"Wait!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Give us the keys!"

"What keys?" the bald man asked smugly.

"The ones for this door. Don't play games with me," he added, nodding at the dead bandit on the floor. "Take them and send them over here."

_Please, God, make the keys be real._

_Did I hear him close the door when they left? I have no idea! What am I doing?_ _What am I…_

He felt his eyes water when the bald man reluctantly kneeled over his dead friend to retrieve a big iron key, and prayed once more that nobody noticed. The item was unenthusiastically thrown in their directions, and Bruneau tried to pick it up, this time, Aramis noted, with his little finger.

"Slip the knife and pistols in my belt," he instructed, and the merchant put the key on the floor again to comply.

_This will never end. Oh, God, it takes forever, and they're going to decide that I'm a joke, and they'll do something stupid, and I'll have to fight back, and we'll all be dead!_

But, this time, Bruneau was able to act quickly . A minute later, they had passed the threshold, closed the door, and Aramis was releasing Nicolas only to strike him with the butt of his pistol. He put more strength than needed in the motion, and the man's head jerked sideways with a light crack. When his body hit the floor, Aramis noticed the blood that poured from his temple and, in spite of himself, found the sight extremely satisfying.

"We did it," he thought. "Dear God! We did it!"

" **You** did it, lad. Again."

He raised his chin, only then acknowledging that he had both lowered it and spoken out loud.

"Well, we'll rejoice later. Let's assess our situation, if you don't mind," he half-whispered-half-snapped, not sure yet if he wanted Bruneau to feel optimistic or guilty.

They were in a small, empty room, a stair facing them, apparently leading directly to the outside, if the light coming from above was to be trusted. Aramis took the dagger in his right hand. He was almost as good a shot with both, but wasn't sure he could fight as well as needed with a blade in his left.

"Stay behind me," he instructed Bruneau.

"Okay."

"Don't make any noise, and tell me if you feel like fainting, or throwing up, or whatever. I'd much prefer that you refrain from doing so, but I'd rather not be taken by surprise."

"Okay."

"Also, don't touch anything."

"Okay."

"I can't carry you, but put your arm on my shoulder if you need it. And poke me if you see any danger."

"Okay."

_Well, isn't that a pleasant change?_  he mused, feeling his good spirits flowing back but not willing to voice them yet.

Both men climbed the stairs warily. When they stepped into the light, they had to blink to clear their vision and get a look at their surroundings. They were in a small open area, encircled by trees and ruins. Several worn paving stones were still resisting the invasion of the wild grasses, along with some remains of walls, one of them just behind them, that had fallen into disrepair ages ago. A former farm, probably. Long deserted, and doubtlessly long forgotten. The forest prevented them from making out much of the vicinity. They could be five miles to several leagues away from Taverny, as far as they knew.

"I can't see any horses," Bruneau muttered, breaking his vows of silence a minute after making them.

Aramis shushed him quietly and scanned the area. The merchant was right.

That didn't make any sense. As close as they might be to the town, the three bandits couldn't have simply walked here unnoticed with two prisoners, at least one of them unconscious. Relieved that no one had jumped out of nowhere to murder them, he half-closed his eyes and listened.

He had always been able to rely on his hearing almost as much as his eyesight. One day, when he was around twelve, he'd caught a nasty cold in the drafty corridors of the D'Herblay castle. Somehow, the infection had spread to his ears, making him practically deaf for a week. He recalled with acuity the overwhelming terror that had seized him. It was maybe the first and only time in his life he'd been truly afraid, to the point of panic, his pride alone forbidding him to yell and cry, and climb in his despised father's bed, and beg him to hold him tight, and comfort him, until the dread eased.

He heard the sound of the wind whistling across the ruins and swishing in the foliage, creaking wood, animals slipping through the land cover… and birds. Their singing was varied and abundant, which meant, in addition to the relatively warm and dry weather, that it was late in the afternoon. He couldn't help but smile, remembering his old friends who often withdrew to such noisy locations to enjoy the quiet. He himself had never been able to handle the serenity of the countryside very long. Yet, on the rare occasions he had needed actual peace, he'd understood very young that the only place to try to find it was inside his own mind.

Which didn't mean he often succeeded in doing so,however.

So. Birds, rodents, maybe some reptiles and, if you truly pricked up your ears, knowing what you were searching for… remote whinnies and quaking, soft pacing… Horses.

And… men?

He swiftly turned on his heels, Bruneau's arm pressing on his shoulder too late, and raised his pistol.

Only to be met by one other gun, two rifles and a sword. One more step, and the latter was just under his nose.

Four men.

Four more men.

He felt Bruneau release his grasp on him and perceived his fall to his knees.

Four bandits.

Why had he assumed that they would be safe?

Because, hearing the gunshots, anyone would have come to the rescue of their friends?But there was no hierarchy between them!

They didn't like each other!

They only wanted the gold!

His head hurt.

It hurt so much!

The ambushes, the fights, the capture, the men killed in cold blood, the escape… He'd gone through all these trials only to fail, thirty feet from the horses, because he forgot to check if anybody was hiding behind the great big bloody obvious hiding spot of a wall. Because, in his mind, any fresh bandits would have confronted him directly, a big altercation following,during which he would have fought courageously and killed several ruffians before getting away or dying on his feet.

He had often mocked Marie's readings, but it seemed that he himself tended to live in a fantasized adventure story.

His sister's fanciful daydreams might have helped her escaping the boring existence of a lady in the manor. His would be his end.

"I…" he started, and was shut up by a simple "t-t-t" from the man with the sword.

It was over.

There was nothing more he could do.

He was not afraid. His brain, that had run wild since he'd woken up in the cellar, only stopped fighting.

He felt empty.

Only his throbbing head reminded him that he was still alive.

He didn't even look at the ruffians. Not really. Noticed vaguely that they were all fair-skinned, and that none of them were especially young or old. They all faded into a hazy average of a death sentence.

They spoke.

He waited.

One of them made some wisecrack he didn't fully register, and asked him to drop his weapons.

He didn't.

He was prepared to perish, but not to surrender.

"Are you ready to die in battle, Bruneau?"

A plaintive cry.

No, then. But there was nothing more he could do.

He turned his gaze to one of the bandits holding a rifle. The one who'd talked, he believed. He was thin and tall, with a round, childish face that contrasted almost comically with the rest of his physiognomy. Straight, chestnut-brown hair. Three-day beard.

_That's the face of the last man I will kill._

The face was yelling at him: "Drop your weapon. Drop your weapon,  **now**!"

Aramis pressed the trigger.

And two bandits fell before the pistol went off.

x

À suivre :)


	7. Chapter 7

At this point in his life, Aramis was not yet a sharpshooter.

He knew he could trust his eyes, he knew his arms were steady, he knew he could wait in ambush for hours for his prey to be in range, he knew, even, that such time as he spent alone, hunting, in the forest, was just about the only thing that becalmed his reckless nature.

He knew that enough to boast shamelessly about it, especially when there was a delicate young maiden around. He couldn't count the stumps he'd lodged a bullet into, the apples he'd pulped still hanging from the tree, the door bells he'd struck and made ring from two hundred yards away, giggling stupidly with his friends as the owner opened the door to be greeted by nothing but a faint whiff of gunpowder in the air, and once there had even been a hat he'd blasted away from the overblown head of a very,  **very**  conceited Comte's son.

But he was also dimly aware that he was too green, too eager to show off and, possibly, too jumpy, to display the same range of skills in the midst of combat.

One day, a mere bird had distracted him. It was a yellow siskin, quite a rare passerine in the Herblay forest. It was at the time when, due to plain boredom, probably, he had developed a sudden yen for studying ornithology – one of his many passions that didn't last a month but into which he had delved deeply, to the point of forgoing sleep. When he'd heard the signature  _tliie, tliie_ , he'd slightly turned around, a delighted smile on his face. A twig had snapped underfoot, and the deer he had patiently waited for almost an hour to come and quench its thirst at the stream had vanished into the brush.

So. He was very good. Just not  **that**  good.

Still, he very rarely missed a shot.

And certainly not at a distance of six feet

Well, first times for everything.

As the two men dropped, the bandit who'd been threatening him spun on his heels with his blade in hand, very nearly cutting Aramis' face from lower jaw to nose on the way. The young man stepped back and, forgetting that Bruneau had dropped to his knees just behind him, almost stumbled over him. The merchant yelped. Aramis' gun went off and one bullet was wasted in the skies.

A second later, everyone was crouched down low and the young man had only the time to notice that neither of the shot bandits were dead – one had been hit in the shoulder, the other somewhere in his back – before a barrel was raised in his direction again. He kicked it away and shifted his dagger into his right hand to jump at his enemy. Struck between elbow and heart, the man fell. Aramis only hesitated half a second before finishing him off and seizing his rifle. It was a shoddy weapon. Old, and rusted even, where the lock plate and the rear sight met the wood, but it would do the trick. He shouldered it and aimed at the last standing bandit, who was running to the forest. Bruneau shouted once more:

"There are more of them!"

Aramis winced as his head throbbed again, but turned in the direction the salesman was looking at and saw two familiar figures coming out of the woods.

"Juste Jules?" he whispered incredulously, as the merchant, in spite of his wrecked fingers, tried to hang on to his clothes as if his life depended on it. "Stop it!" he snapped. "They're friends. It's Juste Jules and… Valentin."

The older man was following the younger one, a smile on his gentle, bearded face. He had a rifle in his hand, whereas Juste Jules was only holding a large stick; but that, combined with his stature, was quite enough to make an impression.

_Why are they here?_

_I don't even know Valentin!_

The bandit who had a bullet in his shoulder groaned and tried to stand, his good arm hesitantly reaching for his blade.

"Don't," Aramis warned, and was answered by a look in which the visible anger was not potent enough to conceal the fear. "I won't let anyone do you any harm if you don't try to hurt us," he clarified, and thought:  _You'll probably be hanged or sent to the galleys, but there's nothing I can do about that._

The man stuck out his chin in a poor attempt to save his pride, but remained seated, waiting in submission. His accomplice was moaning, blood pouring ceaselessly from the hole in his back; and Aramis, his Christian sense of duty restored by relief, knelt down beside him and pulled up his shirt to have a look at the injury. In his own weakened state, the sight made him a bit nauseous. He sighed, as much out of acceptance as to clear his thoughts, and muttered a short prayer. The wounded man didn't seem to hear him. His spirit was somewhere else already, much to Aramis' own peace of mind. Right now, he didn't feel like offering comfort to a guy who'd attempted to kill him.

"He's dead meat," a voice asserted from behind him. He twisted his head, and his first flash of annoyance at the disrespect vanished when he saw Juste Jules smiling at him.

"Hi," he greeted tiredly, and sat on the ground.

"Hi," the strongman said in turn. "You look terrible."

"Thanks." He gestured in the direction of Bruneau: "He's in worse shape than I am."

Juste Jules frowned, unconvinced:

"Well, that's yet to establish. Have you seen your face?"

"What about it?" Aramis asked, a bit more alarmed than he'd intended.

Juste Jules smiled:

"Nothing. You're still pretty. It's covered with blood is all. Here. Let me have a look."

_Did he just call me me_ pretty  _?_

Aramis let the other young man put a hand under his chin and lift it up, then move it side to side to figure out the extent of the damage. Valentin, after a quick glance around, bent down close to Bruneau and performed a similar task on the merchant. Juste Jules eventually retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and started to wipe the blood off his young friend's face. Aramis winced when he rubbed harder:

"Sorry," the big man apologized. "It's dry. Can't remove it. Good news is, it looks worse than it is. You've got a large bruise but..." he jumped as his hand moved behind Aramis' skull, eliciting a cry of pain when his fingers made contact with the other lump. "Correction:" he amended. "You have  **two** large bruises, but I believe that you'll survive."

"Told you."

"Can you stand?"

"Of course I can,' Aramis retorted, mildly outraged by the question.

As a point of fact, he wasn't so sure. He'd had to remain strong while both his life and Bruneau's had been on the line, but now that he felt safe, it was as if he'd spent a month's supply of stamina in merely a day. Juste Jules seemed to notice, as he diplomatically held out a hand, years of practice on stage managing to make the gesture appear as a testimony of male friendship rather than a sympathetic assistance. Aramis swayed a little when the other man lifted him, but Juste Justes was strong enough to keep him on his feet with only one hand on his forearm.

"So," Valentin spoke, his deep, baryton voice light and cheerful, like nothing had just happened. "I believe that we haven't been properly introduced. I am Benoît Valentin. Nicole's fath…"

Just then a piercing scream rang from the forest.

"Nicole?" Valentin gasped, his hand still lightly clasping Aramis' forearm'.

"Nicole?" the young man repeated, flabbergasted... "You brought her here?"

"She's the one who shot that guy in the back," Juste Jules answered, probably pointing at the dying bandit, but Aramis was already rushing into the woods.

He heard the horse before seeing it, and had just the time to spring back before it ran into him. The pain in his leg came back with a vengeance when he put his full weight on it. He barely remained standing and managed to make out Nicole's voluminous skirts flying in the wind. She was sitting across the horse, in front of her abductor, and her incessant struggles was slowing down the man's escape effectively. But he was a seasoned warrior, strong enough to take a few punches in the time it took to reach a clear path.

Aramis could see it, in the distance, through the trees the rider tried to make his mount weave through. He raised his rifle and heard Valentin yelling: "No!", only then realizing that both the actor and Juste Jules had followed him.

"You'll hit Nicole!

He ignored the man's plea and took aim.

It was an impossible shot.

The horse was far and getting further, there were trees in the way, his weapon was a piece of crap, his head hurt like hell and his vision was starting to blur.

_I'm not **that** good._

_I'm a show-off, too nervous, easily distracted…_

Yet, the bandit's back was between him and Nicole.

_I rarely miss a shot._

_I won't hit her._

_And Valentin must know it. I he didn't, he'd tackle me to the ground, not just stand there and shout at me..._

He pressed the trigger.

The weapon's light kick was sufficient to push him off balance

For a second, everything went dark.

Then, his vision cleared a bit; not enough to make out distinct shapes, but the forest was a lovely shade of brownish green.

There were hands on his shoulders. And a voice.

"..mis? ...ouwithme? … mis?"

_Juste Jules._

"m'fine"

"Sure you are."

"Nicole?"

"She's… okay. Seems so. She's kicking the bandit. If he's not dead, he'll be when Valentin reaches them."

Aramis chuckled and shook his head to clear it.

_That was a terrible, terrible idea._

"Wow! Are  **you**  okay?"

"No."

It was Juste Jules's turn to laugh. Aramis felt himself being raised to his feet. The shade of green tilted dangerously and, suddenly, there was a hand behind his knees.

"Don't you dare!"

"You can't walk!" Juste Jules protested.

"I'll lean on you. No-one's carrying me."

_A sigh._

But Juste Jules complied and walked.

_Am I walking?_

_I am._

_Good Lord, it's over!_

_I'm safe._

_Nicole is safe._

_Bruneau will be._

_Still… I'm forgetting something._

He blinked furiously again, and this time his vision deigned clear a bit. He saw Nicole's and Valentin's shapes, running in his direction in a shifting blur.

_Focus!_

_What am I… ?_

_Oh!_

"There are two others!"

"What?"

"Bandits. In… basement. Knocked Nicolas senseless. Watch out for the bald one."

"O… kay?"

"m'serious."

"Me too. I'll check on them."

"'kay"

_Nicole's voice in the distance._

_Too loud._

"m'head hurts."

"I know."

_Dizzy._

"Don't let me fall."

"I won't."

"wan'to walk."

"Then do."

"Dn't carry me like a d'msel in distress."

"I promise."

"..."

"Aramis?"

_Yes._

"Aramis!"

_Don't shout. I can hear you._

"... he okay?"

"... otsure… ramis… earme?"

_Told you I did._

"..s'hurt!"

_I'm fine._

_Stop shouting._

_I'm all right._

_I can walk._

_I'm safe._

_We're all safe._

xxxx

He was tired.

Comfortable, and warm, but weary.

Like that time he'd insisted on going hunting with the chevalier d'Andrésy's son and his friends, despite being four years younger than the other lads. They had spent three days in the woods, stopping only at dusk to share stories and drink wine until it was too late to keep their eyes open. Then, they barely had four hours of sleep before getting up at dawn and mounting their horses to start all over again. On his return to his father's estate, he had made it to his room without anyone noticing how exhausted he was - or so he hoped - before collapsing right on top of his sheets and sleeping thirteen hours straight.

Then as now, he had woken with the disagreeable feeling of having overslept but still being tired.

"...ake up."

_No._

He didn't want to.

Something touched his forehead, just above his brows. It was pleasant but would not change anything right now:

"Lemme sleep."

"You've done enough of that already."

He turned on his belly to escape the fingers that were now trying to brush his cheek. There was a chuckle.

"Don't be a child."

"enleamelone," he mumbled in the pillow, because yes, it definitely felt and smelt like one.

_It's so good._

_Pillows are good._

_I've missed them._

The hand was shaking his shoulder now. He had to remember that it'd been a woman's voice, and a friendly one, that had woken him up, to not throw his new pillow friend in his tormentor's face.

He didn't have to be polite, though.

"What?" he grunted, half-opening his eyes.

Nicole smiled.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I need more sleep," he grumbled unceremoniously and started to close his eyes again. The woman laughed:

"Oh no you're not! I've already let you go back to sleep twice. Now, it's time to get up!"

"You did?" he answered, ignoring the injunction.

"Yes. Don't you remember?"

He shook his head and cringed at the pain. Nicole frowned in concern.

"Your head still hurts?"

"Not so much," he reassured her, and realized it was true. He put a hand to his temple and found a bandage. "Where are we? How long did I sleep?"

"In your room at Taverny," she smiled. "And almost half a day."

"Better than last time."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled in turn.

"Nothing. Is everyone okay? How's Bruneau?"

"Still weak, but he'll make it. The doctor is even confident his fingers will make at least a partial recovery. They might hurt all his life, though. Especially when he gets older."

Aramis sighed and forced himself to turn over and face Nicole. The motion didn't make him dizzy, nor did it cause his head to throb more than it already did. "He was lucky," he stated eventually.

"Lucky you were there."

_Lucky **you** were there_, Aramis thought, as he straightened in his bed. The sun was bright behind the window. Someone had made a fire, and there was a flowery smell in the air. He raised an eyebrow:

"Did you bring a Pot Pourri?"

"You noticed?" she chuckled. "I made it myself. I call it 'A Hero's Dreams'."

To his own surprise, Aramis felt himself blush.

"How did you find us?" he asked, hoping to change the subject before Nicole realized his confusion.

"When I didn't see you at the performance, I was worried. My father believed you'd just found something better to do… a young woman to satisfy, maybe. In his defense, I have a tendency to fall for guys who just ditch me once they get what they want. I told him that I hadn't  _given_  you anything, and that you weren't like that… that you were my buddy, right? Anyway. It was dark but I went to your inn with Juste Jules. We saw four men carrying you and Bruneau to a cart. For a second, we thought you were both dead! We tried to go after them but we were on foot so, eventually, we just went back to my father and convinced him to help us. In the morning, we followed the tracks. We had to make a lucky guess at some point, because the ground was getting stony, but I'm a pretty damn good tracker, you know?"

Aramis only gave a grateful smile in response. As much as he liked being around Nicole, the woman sometimes unsettled him. She didn't seem to try to seduce him, not openly, at any rate. She was significantly older than him and there was apparently some motherly affection in her banter. The rest of the time, she was friendly, and blunt like a man. That was the reason why he felt so comfortable in her company. She had talked to him about her many former conquests and inquired endlessly about his own. She could be a bit pushy, sometimes, but, ultimately, she always knew when to stop. She didn't seem to mind how people saw her, which was not a usual behavior when you wanted to entice another human being. Yet, she did like to spice her conversations with slight touches of flirtation.

He'd heard many rumors about actors. One day, after a particularly disappointing fair week at the house, his mother, laughing in resignation, had told him that performers didn't really need to come to her, because all the services she offered, their companions were giving for free. On reflection, he kind of liked this way of behaving. But sudden freedom could be overwhelming, and he found it difficult to tell the difference between blatant attempts at seducing him and innocent teasing. Maybe Nicole - as Juste Jules, for that matter - just constantly flirted without thinking about it, ready to reap the benefits of any positive response.

She gave him a pointed look and he realized he'd remained silent for too long.

"Sorry. I'm… trying to figure out… So… Your father just accepted to risk his life - and yours - to rescue two men he'd barely met?"

"Well, he wasn't terribly happy with me coming with them but, as I told you, I'm the best tracker. Besides, Juste Jules is useless with a rifle. And us members of the Company look after one another, you know."

"I'm not Company."

Nicole opened her mouth to answer, then seemed to think better of it and just said:

"The rule sometimes extends to friends."

"I'm honored," Aramis replied. "And I'm sorry I missed the performance. How did it go?"

"We were terrific, of course! We were cheered by a rapturous crowd of at least twenty peasants, a man wanted to punch my father because he plays a jealous husband and the guy believed he was really trying to kill me, and a young chevalier asked me to marry him. He was drunk off his gourd, but it's always nice to be noticed. Still. That was nothing compared to our ensuing performance!" she added with a wink.

"Yeah," Aramis laughed. "That one was almost perfect."

"Almost?" Nicole echoed in mocked offense.

"Well, I would hate to appear ungrateful, but, next time you shoot a man on my account, you should try to first hit the one who's actually threatening me."

"What tells you he wasn't the one I was aiming for?"

"Oh, well. That's good to know."

Nicole giggled and leaned forward to ruffle his hair before he had the time to stop her:

"You're welcome."

xxxx

He had expected to find Bruneau in bed, sobbing in pain and whining about his bad luck.

But the merchant was outside, enjoying the sun on a small bench, in the inn's garden. He didn't even use the wall behind him for support. Just sat up nice and straight, and it was only if one turned around and faced him that one noticed the bruises on his body and the large walking stick his right forearm was resting on. His hands, for their part, were covered in so many bandages they looked like two big cotton bales.

Aramis merely nodded a greeting and settled next to the merchant, waiting. For several minutes, Bruneau didn't say a thing. It was all the more unexpected that he didn't seem ashamed. He'd been able to hold Aramis' gaze, which, the young man knew well, had been sad and bitter. He couldn't have concealed his resentment, even if he'd tried.

"How's your head?" the merchant asked, eventually.

His speech was a bit muddled and, on closer look, there was a slightly hazy quality to his eyes. The doctor had probably given him a painkiller of some sort, and Aramis hoped that his thinking was not impaired.

"Fine," he answered flatly.

"You're mad at me."

Aramis shrugged "Doesn't matter anymore."

"It does to me."

"Too bad."

Aramis clenched his teeth. What was he doing? Nobody had forced him to confront the merchant. Nicole had even spat that the man wasn't worth it. He could have just asked for his wages and left!

"I'll give you half of the gold," Bruneau said, as if he'd read his thoughts.

"What?"

"That's the least I can do."

For some reason, this belated generosity enraged Aramis.

"The  _least you could do_  was to tell me you had stolen it," he countered hotly. "And that people were after you!"

"I had no idea they were."

"Well, that's because you're an overblown, selfish old fool!"

"I know."

Aramis was slightly taken aback by this short and humble admission. There was a long silence again before he answered:

"I don't want your gold. Just pay me my wages and I'll be on my way."

"I was hoping that you'd stay with me."

Aramis wasn't sure what expression showed in his eyes when he turned to Bruneau, but the man paled.

"I… can I tell you the truth?" the merchant tried nonetheless and, as Aramis remained silent: "You're right. I'm wealthy. Business is good and I have no serious competitors. I never lived beyond my means, my wife is thrifty, and I have no gambling debts. The gold was for my daughter." He paused here, obviously hoping for a question, but the young man in front of him was not his usual revering and credulous audience. No, this was a stranger who'd risked his life for his, naively believing it was worth the sacrifice, before being brutally proven wrong. This was someone whose trust he would have to fight to win again. "She's fifteen," he continued. "I didn't know about her until a year ago. Her mother… she was a farm girl. I loved her, I guess. I didn't think I did, but why else would I have... I had never cheated on my wife before, y'know? Twenty-six years on the road and not a single time had it crossed my mind to betray her. For the good it did me!" he snorted. "I'm not even sure she believes me when I swear that I'm faithful! Anyway. I loved Lucette, but I couldn't be with her, so I just left. Never stopped by her village again. Last year, I ran into one of her sisters, who told me she'd died. In abject poverty. The woman didn't go especially soft on me, as you might have guessed. She even took some twisted pleasure in informing me that her niece - my daughter - was now… owned, by some… procurer. I went to meet him, but the sum of money he asked for her… Well, I would have never gotten close to such an amount in my lifetime. That's when I started to work for the Huguenot comte."

_So much for the disinterested heroism,_ Aramis thought, but he was past challenging Bruneau's very personal conception of morality.

"Why didn't you say any of that before?" he asked bluntly. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

At that the merchant actually rose to his feet in anger. Or tried to, before he fell helplessly back on his bottom. He dismissed his buffoonery with a snort and snapped, all red and sweaty:

"Oh, don't you just wonder why?! Maybe because I was ashamed? Because I didn't want to be judged by a nice, callow Catholic boy who'd obviously been raised in a castle? Why would you have thought of me, Aramis, if I'd told you that I'd fathered a whore? And what are you laughing at, if I may ask?"

Aramis knew he was smiling, yet he had not realized that he was actually chuckling before the merchant took offense.

But he didn't care.

It was all just too ridiculous!

"You would have had to have tried to know me first to understand," he said, and got up. His leg was still a bit painful, but the limp had lessened to a mere tension. For now, at any rate. He was aware that he wouldn't be up to walking dozens of miles anytime soon, but he felt relieved anyway. He was safe, his head was better, and he had the answers he was hoping for. He knew it wasn't nice of him to ditch Bruneau here, alone and forlorn, after he'd poured his heart out to him. Unfortunately, the irony of the situation was wearing out the little stoicism he had left.

"Aramis?" the merchant tried, and so he decided to grant him at least a last look in the eyes.

"If you had only trusted me with your secrets as easily as you did with your life, Burneau..." he started, not sure what to conclude. "Well…" he settled on, "Maybe we could have been friends."

The merchant opened his mouth to speak, but, when the young man turned on his heels, he had the decency to shut up.

Aramis left the garden in silence, unable to help thinking back on what could have been.

xxxx

"And where are you going, young man?"

Aramis turned away from the bag he'd just finished hanging up on Ébène's saddle, and saw Valentin, Nicole and Juste Jules entering the stables.

"You've come to wish me a bon voyage?" he asked casually, but he was touched by the gesture. It was not dawn yet, and all three of them had spent the night with him in a tavern, just to keep him company a bit longer. It had been three days since the actors had saved his life, and not only had them brought him food and books in the room where he'd locked himself in to avoid seeing Bruneau, but they'd delayed their own departure to entertain him until he was fit to travel.

_This must be what having a family is like_ , he'd mused, his eyes a bit watery, but he'd blamed it on the wine, even if, in anticipation of his departure he'd been more than reasonable.

"To make you an offer, actually," Valentin declared, and Aramis merely raised a brow. "What would you think of becoming a performer?" the old man went on.

"Well, you know the answer to that," Aramis retorted, because Nicole and Juste Jules had fed him with endless and more or less believable stories of their adventures on the road the days before. He had found the tales immensely appealing, but now understood that they had intended more than just to amuse him. "I think it would be fun, but I have no talent."

"You can shoot."

"I can…" he repeated, before Nicole stepped in:

"You could shoot apples. I would put one on my head and you'd shoot it off! The public would love that!"

The mere idea of doing such a thing was enough to give him the creeps.

"Nah," he retorted. "I won't shoot an apple off your head."

" **I**  would shoot one off yours."

"Y… Would you?"

"If I was as good a shot as you are, yes."

"Well, that's actually not very…" he started, and then changed strategy and proclaimed: "As a matter of fact, you still wouldn't. Not an apple, by any means. Even if you hit it, you'd blow my head off. You might shoot a cabbage, though. Or a melon."

"See?" Juste Jules intervened. "I told you he was an expert." And, turning to Aramis: "We need you."

The young man chuckled but quickly sobered:

"I already explained to you that I have to find Isabelle."

"And you will," Valentin assured, although all his experience as an actor was not enough to hide his doubts. "We are always on the move. You told Nicole about Paris and Troyes? We'll go there. As we do, every year. We travel through all of France. There's no better way to search for someone than with a company of street actors."

To his own surprise, Aramis actually considered the matter.

He loved the Valentins. They were all welcoming, smart and funny, and, after less than a week knowing him, had made him feel like he belonged. Nicole was the most honest woman he'd ever met, Juste Jules was kindness incarnate, and Valentin, despite his apparent severity, had a mischievous sparkle in his eyes that said a lot about his past escapades… Even young, insolent, Yves seemed like a wise and curious kid.

And the freedom that came with a life on the road was appealing.

Yet, he couldn't resolve to consent.

"We won't hurt you."

"What?"

He liked Nicole's bluntness. He really did. But that was not something you said out loud to someone in front of his friends.

"Nicole, I appreciate your candor, but…"

"We won't hurt you," she repeated, unimpressed. "You can trust us."

He felt Juste Jules and Valentin's looks on him and suddenly wasn't able to look at them in the eye.

Trust had nothing to do with this. He just… He had a mission. He'd decided on his own path. A path he deserved. An endless, solitary quest for love and redemption. He couldn't just give in to this unexpected, wanton offer of friendship.

"I wasn't…" he started, but the sentence died on his lips.

He knew Nicole had meant well, and would maybe decide she had  **done** well, too, once he was be able to proceed with the reasoning but, right now, his mind was blank.

He had no idea what to answer.

"Am I…"

_Am I such an open book ?_

It was Juste Jules who came to his rescue:

"You know what? Just give it a try. We're heading to Aulnay. That's a small town, not far from here. I get that it's a big change of life we're offering, so why don't you just come along with us at least that far, and figure out whether you like it. If it turns out you don't, you can part ways with us there, and we'll understand. What do you think?"

Aramis sighed. He felt as if he was some fragile little kitten, and knew he would have taken offense if he'd been in his right mind but, at the moment, he was simply grateful for the strongman's compassion. He smiled, hoping that the result didn't look too lopsided and, not trusting himself to accept the offer without a fight, merely pointed at his guns and warned:

"It's my duty to inform you that if you want to make a routine out of this, the powder would cost a fortune. And I'm certainly not wealthy enough to pay for it."

"We are not hard up for money," Valentin assured, before Juste Jules stepped in one more time:

"And, if it  **is** too much of an expense, we could try it with a crossbow."

"I've never shot with a crossbow in my life."

"Really? I should teach you, then!"

"Right," Aramis giggled stupidly. "Let's do that. Just… no apples."

Juste Jules snorted and Nicole smiled softly.

"Off we go, then?" she suggested, but Aramis objected:

"Can we wait another hour?"

"Sure," Valentin agreed. "We don't usually leave so early anyway, but you seemed pretty adamant about hitting the road at first light, yesterday."

"I know," Aramis admitted. "It's just… I…" He took a deep breath and felt a weight lift from his chest when he exhaled. "I should say a proper goodbye to Bruneau."

x

A suivre :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends my first act!  
> I'm going to take a small break from this fic to focus on a big job, but will come back as soon as I can with new adventures of Aramis with the Valentins. Worst case scenario: act 2 will start in September. So stay tuned, and be assured that I'm not leaving this unfinished!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the next chapter, and beginning of my second act!  
> I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. I believed my "big job" would only last until the end of August… I finished it in December! Don't worry, I do plan to finish this story. The updates might still be a bit erratic until March, but then it should get better. And I'll try my best to never leave you on a cliffhanger for long.  
> Know that there ought to be about 20 chapters, and that I might write the entire third act before posting it daily (I probably should have done that from the start but, well…)  
> Anyway. Enjoy! And feel free to drop me a line and tell me what you think. I need as much feedback as I can get when I write long things in English!

"He's got such beautiful hair…"  
"Told you so."  
"It is so soft and silky. And those curls…"  
"Said he wanted to cut it."  
"What? No! That would be absolutely sacrilegious!  
"That's exactly what I told him, but apparently, it gets in the way when he's shooting something."  
"Lemme sleep…"  
Aramis shifted on the mattress and buried his face in the pillow. The two women ignored his plea:  
"He could just tie it back."  
"He does, now. Juste Jules… You know? The big one."  
"The one who likes men?"  
"You shouldn't listen to rumors."  
"I do not. But you'd have to be blind not to notice that he's panting after that little debauched vicomte de Cenon. He should be more cautious, by the way. The vicomte loves to play with his pet friends until..."  
"Anyway. Juste Jules told me that… with his hair tied back he looks like a pirate captain."  
"Haha! This, I have to see!"  
"Come with me to the show and you will."  
"I'm not sure Nicole would …"  
"For Christ's sake! Silence, women!"  
Something soft walloped his head and Juliette scolded:  
"Don't 'woman' me, child!"  
"Not a child."  
"Well, I suppose that you certainly proved that last night. But still."  
Giving up on sleep, Aramis turned on his back and confronted the two beauties on the bed with a cheeky smile. Juliette was a brown-skinned, tall and delicate widow of twenty-seven, who, apart from the white marks three pregnancies had left on her belly, still looked like a maiden. Lucie, her friend, was younger. Probably still in her teens. She had blue eyes, fine light-blond hair just as he liked it, and an air of innocence that had doubtlessly fooled many men.  
"Hello, birthday boy," she said.  
"Hello, my gorgeous present."  
She laughed. Aramis wasn't sure how Juliette, whom he'd only been seeing for half a week, had known that he was turning nineteen, but he felt inclined to believe that Juste Jules had had something to do with it. Just as the year before, Aramis had told him, and Nicole and the others, that he didn't want to make a fuss about it and, just like last time, the strongman had managed to obey his wishes and still make the evening unforgettable.  
The previous year, he'd gotten them hired to play at a young baron's birthday. The party had been incredible. The lad's father, an extravagant but genuinely considerate gentleman, had gathered some of the region's most renowned musicians, cooks and artists in his castle. Everybody was dressed in white, there were swans in the ponds… At some point, doves had been released, just before a marvelous firework display started, and Aramis, catching his friend's smiles, had felt both spared from the unwanted attention and as if the celebrations had been thrown just for him.  
Never before had he met anyone as thoughtful as Juste Jules. It was as if making his companions happy was the man's greatest pleasure in life. He was tremendously cordial, non-judgmental, compassionate yet able to tell you a few hard truths when you needed them… and also far more subtle than he looked. That was the reason why he'd both noticed  **and**  remembered the honesty behind the banter, when, a month ago, Aramis and Nicole had discussed their intimate fantasies, and he'd confessed that he would love having two women take care of him. "Instead of," as he'd phrased "one smart-mouthed wench forever needling him," at which point Nicole had slapped him hard in the stomach with the back of her hand, and he'd spat out the ale he'd been drinking, to the sound of said wench's laughter.

So yes, even if Juliette had been the one introducing him to "a good friend of hers", he knew he had Juste Jules to thank for the presence of the lovely Lucie in the room when they had entered it.  
The girl was not a prostitute, a fact for which Aramis was grateful. Despite being respectful of the profession, he didn't feel comfortable with the idea of paying for sex. He'd seen enough of the abuse his mother and her colleagues had to endure to be repelled by the mere thought of a girl wondering, even for the briefest instant, if he was one of those men who believed that paying for a service meant buying a body to use as they wished.  
Also, he couldn't help but judge such a thing degrading. For him.  
He didn't need money to get a woman in his bed!  
Lucie kissed him tenderly on the lips and, as to confirm the assumption, said: "I should go home soon. My father will lock me up until I marry François if he realizes I didn't spend the night in my room."  
"Odile's not covering for you?" Juliette inquired, sincere concern in her voice.  
"She is. But no matter how long she's been in the family, there is only so much my dear nanny can say to fool her master."  
Lucie was smiling, but there was sadness in her eyes. Aramis wondered who her father was, and how frequently he'd had to mistreat his daughter to have an old servant betraying him. Or maybe he never really did, he mentally amended. Maybe Lucie was simply one of those free-spirited women, too smart or too bold for their own good, and Odile merely tried to grant her as much freedom as she could grasp, before being thrown to a matrimonial jail.  
"So," Juliette carried on, chasing away his thoughts. "I take it that you won't be joining us tonight."  
"I'm afraid not," Lucie breathed. "Besides, you've seen the play already. You just want to tease this poor Nicole."  
"I most certainly do not!" Juliette exclaimed in mock outrage. "As a matter of fact, I was only planning to go for her sake. It's not my fault that she's letting her jealousy get in the way, when she could have her best friend supporting her on her grand premiere."  
Aramis smiled. Juliette and Nicole had known and loved each other for years, but expressed their mutual affection in a fairly bellicose and always entertaining tone... these past days, he'd repeatedly found himself the subject and victim of their everlasting badinage.  
"What are you talking about?" he asked for the sake of argument. "Nicole is like a sister to me."  
"Well. Don't say that to her."  
"I cannot believe how naïve you are." Lucie concurred, slowly putting on the dress she'd retrieved from under the bed. "You seem to understand women so well."  
Aramis vaguely hummed. It was certainly not the first time he'd heard that about himself, and it was true that he sometimes got caught in the middle of girls' confidences, the maidens who'd been so eager for his company some hours before apparently become oblivious to his presence. But he'd never felt especially talented at "understanding women.". He was simply a good listener. With anybody. And, being a good listener, he'd found out pretty soon that people, no matter their sex, or wealth, or faith, were much alike. It was mostly their past, their fragilities and, of course, their core characters, that made them so different from one another.  
Lucie was waiting for an answer and Aramis smiled before straightening up and seizing her by the waist. She let out a small cry and burst out laughing when he rolled over her and whispered in her ear:  
"You figured that out in only one night?"  
"Well, you did understand my needs," she purred, as he kissed her neck. "And Juliette had told me you… aaah! Stop it! You're tickling me."  
"You sure?" he questioned, and gently bit her ear lobe. She sighed, masking her pleasure as affectionate annoyance. "You will get me into more trouble than I already am."  
He raised his arms and smiled mischievously.  
"I'm not keeping you here."  
Juliette took his hand and licked his thumb, then kissed her way up to his elbow, shoulder... When she made it to his cheek, and started to run her fingers through his hair, the nearby church bells rang. Aramis lied down by the now docile Lucie and absentmindedly counted the strokes. The young woman's hand slid down inside his underpants.  
_Three, four, five...  
_ He held his breath. Lucie's movements followed the rhythm of the bells.  
_…_ _seven, nice, ten...  
_ That was quite blasphemous, even if unintentional.  
_... eleven, twelve.  
_ A lot of what they'd done the night before might have been considered unworthy of a good Christian, but still...  
_Wait a minute._  
"Twelve?"  
"Mmwhat?" Juliette asked from somewhere between his neck and the pillow.  
"Is it noon?"  
"Well…" she looked at him, a bit confused. Lucie was busy with his manhood and he gently pushed her fingers away. Juliette went on: "I guess so. What?" she added when his eyes widened.  
"I'm late for the show!"  
"What do you mean, 'late'? The theater hasn't even started to sell the tickets."  
"The theater is tonight! I'm supposed to be at the town square at half past midday!"  
He jumped out of the bed, eliciting a small protest from Lucie.  
"You're performing twice a day?" she wondered, her voice mellow.  
"And they say artists are lazy," Juliette mused.  
He didn't bother to answer their teasing, trying instead to mentally conjure images of Latin lessons, imaginary grandmothers and frozen showers as he struggled into his pants and boots. When he started to fight against a sheet tangled with his shirt, the older woman took pity on him and helped extricate the pieces of cloth from one another. He pulled it on and frantically scanned the room.  
"Where's my crucifix?"  
Lucie's hand appeared in his line of vision, the precious wooden pearls rolling down her white fingers. He managed a panicked "oht'kyousomuch" before dashing through the door.  
"Your jacket," Juliette's voice rang, and he rushed back into the room, and seized the leather before storming out of the inn, into the busy streets of Tours' carnival.

xxxx

Tying one's hair with a ribbon while running was not an effortless undertaking. However, after years of going to bed at dawn, waking up in various homes far from the place they were supposed to perform, and being chased at length by irate husbands, Aramis had mastered the fine art of moving fast without using his arms. He rushed into the dressed-up crowd, bypassed puddles and abandoned vehicles, nimbly zigzagged around street-vendors, musicians, jugglers, fire-eaters and already drunk commoners and bourgeois, barely avoided being knocked down and trampled by the fierce mounts of an arrogant nobleman and his party, jumped over a barrel that laid broken on the wine-soaked dirt, and collided with a plump man carrying a large scroll of fabric.  
The tailor - he could tell immediately by the contrast behind the fine clothes and the plebeian attitude - turned on his heels and grunted, "Moind your step,  _mons_...". Aramis dodged at the last moment, and the bundle missed his left eye and forehead by an inch. The young man breathed a short sigh of relief. He did like living on the edge - to the point of courting death, Valentin had deplored once, after he and Nicole had found it amusing to climb the shaky ruins of an abandoned church; she'd slipped on some moss, he'd tried to reach for her, failed, fallen, almost knocked himself out, and had heard bells ringing in his head for two days. So admittedly, yes, he liked taking risks, but at the cost of a scar on his  _face_? Never!  
"I'm sorry, Monsieur," he apologized nevertheless, and spiced his explanation with a smile. "I was rushing to the cathedral, and didn't pay attention."  
His father would have met such an unexpected demonstration of humility with utter suspicion. No doubt Phoebus would have laughed with disdain, and even Marie and Charles might have raised a brow. Aramis had always been proud. It was not his nature to take the blame for other men's mistakes, the smallest ones included, and the grumpy merchant had been quite as inattentive as he had. However, he'd been in the company of the Valentins for quite a time. He'd joked and fought with the fierce Nicole, played big brother to the now almost grown-up Yves, teamed up with the brave and benevolent Juste Jules and come to the aid of people in distress, and watched the mischievous but wise Valentin talking them all out of trouble more than once. He could have forced some respect into the rude fellow, yet he knew that his charm, even more than his talent with weapons, was his way out of most precarious situations.  
Or his way into delicious ones, he mused, as his vis-à-vis, as expected, smiled in spite of himself and grunted: "No harm done." Aramis waved as graciously as he'd have done with a hat, and was about to resume his running when the man added: "You won't make it."  
"I'm sorry?"  
"To the cathedral. It's crowded all the way from the Rue Royale to the castle. There's some kind of early show..."  
"I know that, I'm…" Aramis began before stopping short. As amiable as the tailor was now, he would not confess his disgracefully unprofessional behavior to a stranger who'd almost put his eye out a moment before. "I'm supposed to meet my friends there!"  
The man didn't refrain his grunt, this time, and Aramis would have blushed if he'd found in himself a reason to regret his night with Juliette and Lucie. He still managed to conjure a contrite look on his face, that was made easier by the sheer panic that was starting to rise inside his chest. The tailor sighed:  
"You can take a boat at the Île Saint-Maurice."  
Aramis was about to ask for more details when he remembered a discussion he'd had with Valentin when their leader had explained all the conduct of the festivities. There were three islands in Tours, all of them inhabited, and the authorities had hired extra bargemen to facilitate the transports during the Carnaval. Besides, most of the islanders owned small boats. Maybe he could rent one, then run up the river. That would let him reach the castle by the left, and the edifice was a street away from the porch of the Saint Gatien Cathedral, where they were supposed to perform their less impish play. There was still an issue, though:  
"Will it be less crowded near the castle?"  
"Ha! Worse! But there's a bridge between the Île Saint-Maurice and the l'Île de l'Entrepont. It has a nice view of the cathedral. You might be able to see some of the festivities from there."  
Well, this was officially a catastrophe. Aramis was not to appear on stage before the third act. Valentin played an evil chevalier who attempted to seduce a beautiful and naive maiden - Nicole - and get his hands on her inheritance. But the young heir had a wise cousin - Juste Jules - and had befriended a wily vagrant - Yves - and, thank to their good advice, resisted the vile schemer. When his plans proved unsuccessful, the villain openly threatened her with a gun, and that was when the Masked Knight, a discreet shadow that had only been seen behind walls and windows during the previous scenes, jumped in, shot his enemy's hat off and delivered his first line: "Don't you dare touch so much as a hair on her head, you cur!"  
In the best of cases, if Aramis did find a boat, he might arrive in sight of the cathedral, on the wrong side of the Loire, just in time to witness the worst failure of his friends.  
"You won't hear them very well, of course, if at all." the taylor was going on, oblivious to his despair. "But you'll see the costumes. And I've been told they had an acrobat and a tame bear. Or was it a knife thrower? Anyway. I've been in Tours all my life and trust me: you'll have a better view from there than most people from the bank, with all the hats, the trees and the gentlemen's carriages."  
_The trees...  
_ "A tree!"  
The man stopped talking and eyed him as if he was some strange animal. Aramis smiled nevertheless.  
There were trees along the bank!  
"Monsieur," he exclaimed, "You're a genius! I cannot express my gratitude to you in any way that would demonstrate my true appreciation of your help."  
"You… just did, I believe?" the tailor answered warily. "But I'm not sure I…"  
But Aramis was already heading for the island. Suddenly, he turned around and yelled:  
"There is a play this evening, at the Grand Theatre. If you don't have other plans, I'd be honored if you and your family accepted to be my guests. Show yourself at the counter and ask for Aramis!"  
With these last words, not bothering to wait for an answer, he ran.  
He ran away from the crowded streets, begging God to help him find a boat. He tried to be confident. He had twenty minutes before the beginning of the play. He'd have to row upstream, and Nicole would kill him for having been up late, but he  _would_ make it to the bank before the third act.  
Well, there would be no benevolent shadow lurking behind the wooden scenery, and the question of his second and last line, that he was supposed to deliver to Nicole face to face, was still open. There was also a dance, then a marriage, but one issue at a time, and he was certain he could count on the Valentins' sense of improvisation. Besides, if his plan was successful - and it would be - it would earn them all more praise than they'd ever received.

xxxx

As he struggled with the muddy depths and the weeds tangled in his oars, Aramis, not for the first time, wondered how he never became a better actor. It was not as if he considered embracing the career but, as Valentin had so graciously phrased, it was always a renewed surprise that such a sweet-talker, as soon as he set a foot on a stage, seemed unable to deliver a line like he believed it. Truth was, he wasn't so fond of the art. He liked discussing the parts, and the meaning of the plays, with his friends. But putting emotionally spilling his guts for the sole purpose of entertaining an often less-than-receptive audience seemed like an annoying waste. Therefore, his roles were pared down to their essentials: he was there to to look good and aim well. At first, he had loved showing off the extent of his abilities. But, in the past months, he'd gotten a bit frustrated. His life on the road, quite ironically, had fallen into monotony. He'd confessed as much to Valentin, who had started to add more and more physical acts in their representations. The man also made a point of choosing plays with as many sword fights as possible. It was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for him, but Aramis knew it couldn't last. Valentin was an actor. So were Nicole and Yves and, to a lesser extent, Juste Jules. Sure, they all could juggle and dance, and make coins disappear behind the ears of the children or pretty maidens in the audience but, in the long run, they would not be happy with tricks and acrobatics that didn't allow them to exercise to the fullest their craft.  
But tonight, it was to be different, he mused. Tonight, they were to perform on a renowned scene. Maybe delivering deep and emotional lines to an educated or, at least, genuinely interested public, would give them all a purpose. Perhaps, tonight, he would make a difference in somebody's life.  
When he finally made it away from the bank, he smiled and waved at the blushing old woman who'd allowed to let him take her little boat for a ridiculous price and a heartfelt promise to bring it back before sunset.  
He was not sure of the hour, but estimated that the cathedral's bells had rung no more than thirty minutes earlier. When they realized he would not be there in time, the Valentins would have delayed the play, but not much. While he was rowing furiously, Nicole was probably delivering her first monologue, about loss and hope… or maybe offering to pay an angry merchant - another of Juste Jules' most impressively physical performances - for the goods Yves had stolen, gaining the young beggar's eternal gratitude. Aramis let out a shaky gasp and wiped his forehead. The current was strong. So was the wind. He released an oar briefly to pat the inner pocket of the jacket Juliette had so gracefully reminded him to take. The mask was there. He wasn't wearing the rest of his costume but nobody would notice. Still. The Masked Knight was supposed to show up as a poverty-stricken yet pristine gentleman, not a sweaty, out-of-breath mess.  
He rowed unbated.  
He would be late.  
He couldn't be late.  
Not ever, but especially not the day they were, thanks to Valentin's tireless negotiations with some old friends, to play in a real theater for the first time in years.  
He couldn't do that to the man who'd reached out to him when he was lost, who'd given him a substitute family, and who had not once judged his - or his daughter's - temperamental, libertine and reckless behavior.  
God, their leader went through the mill because of them! And always with a smile on his face.  
But Nicole was Valentin's blood. He had sacrificed his whole career for her and, as much as she relished her freedom, she would never destroy her father's dream of renown as a successful actor.  
She would never forgive Aramis if he did.  
And she would never forgive herself for having caused her father's undoing in the first place.

He could see the castle, now. Or what was visible of it behind the crowd. A little further, the cathedral's towers pierced the cloudy sky. Voices came from the square, but they were not his companions'. The shouts, the arguments, the mothers calling for their children covered them. As he guided his embarkation in the direction of the hustle, Aramis wondered if the public in the front rows, at least, could make out the dialogues. When he reached the bank, he jumped into the muddy water with no regard for the fine fur-lined boots he'd saved for months to buy. Yet, he had to remind himself of his promise to return the boat to its owner not to abandon it in the muck. He pulled it further on the grass, eliciting protests and curses from the people gathered here. As it turned out, carrying around a large, wet, and dirty wooden contraption into an elaborately costumed crowd helped to clear a path. So he dragged the thing along some more despite the grumbles and the profanities, until he reached a big, tall oak.  
It was ideally located, right in front of the cathedral's main gate, with big, solid branches he could sit on.  
Big, way out of reach, solid branches.  
_Oh Good Lord..._  
He hadn't thought of that.  
In the distance, he could faintly hear Nicole screaming in despair, lamenting her youth, her inexperience, and the misfortunes and responsibilities that kept setting upon her.  
He chuckled.  
The situation was so ridiculous he didn't even have the energy to panic. Instead, some sort of detached clarity was taking a hold of his brain.  
There was a man, built as an ox but dressed like a crow, leaning against the trunk.  
"Monsieur?" he asked, and the bearded, rather unfriendly face of a bourgeois stared back at him. He nodded at the branches and carried on: "I would pay five sous if you give me a leg up."  
Two bushy eyebrows rose.  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"I have to climb that tree. I'll give five sous if you help me. Ten sous," he amended when that failed to wipe the outraged look off the man's face. He was a tad less hostile, though, when he articulated:  
"Lad, I'm sure you believe you have a good reason for such an extravagant request, but I am not some low-class hireling who would stoop to any foolishness for a shiny coin."  
"Fifteen sous. Take it or leave it."  
And Aramis was in the tree.

He had a clear view of the stage.  
He had a clear view of it, and God! it was far.  
He could barely distinguish Nicole and Valentin's looks from where he was perched uncomfortably, in a whirl of wind and rust-colored, dust-smelling leaves.  
He was tired, and wet - and broke. Exhaustion, sore muscles and despair started to make him shiver. Some of the powder he'd carefully kept dry missed the barrel, and that clumsiness didn't bode well for the next part of his plan.  
He spotted Juste-Jules, behind the scenery, waiting to save the innocent maiden in his place. He wondered if he shouldn't let him.  
The Valentins were professionals. They could deal perfectly well with the unexpected.  
_No._  
People knew there was real action in their plays. That was one of the reasons they came to see them.  
He wouldn't disappoint them.  
It took only two tries for the flint to ignite the gun.  
It smoked.  
He aimed.  
Slightly higher than he would normally have.  
Just in case.  
Valentin raised his own weapon at Nicole.  
He pictured Juste Jules, his hand on the prop door, ready to make his entrance.  
And fired.

Valentin's hat was brushed off his head, and the actor's cry of fear was the best of his career.  
There were several shouts in the audience before all eyes followed the performers' and found the young shooter in the tree.  
Aramis resisted the urge to smile.  
Then, he took a deep breath and, with all the air he still had in his lungs, yelled:  
"Don't you dare touch so much as a hair on her head, you cur!"

xxxx

Juste Jule's laugh rang throughout the crowded tavern, and his hand ruffled Aramis' hair.  
"You scared us, you little brat!"  
Aramis returned the smile. After the show had ended, he'd not been sure if he was expected to act proud or ashamed.  
"Was that the triumph you were waiting for?" the strongman asked.  
"Well… it was enjoyable."  
"Enjoyable? It was magnificent! Nicole, tell him he was sublime!"  
Aramis met the woman's eyes, as humbly as he was capable of. She stared at him, and Yves, who she was dutifully watching, seized the occasion to take a sip of her ale. Aramis tried not to chuckle. He could use more than one person on his side, right now.  
"Oh, he  _was_ sublime," Nicole allowed, her low tone indecipherable. "Sublimely late. Did your gift leave him wearier than we expected?"  
"Running without stopping from the Tour du Trésor did," he answered, a bit more challengingly than he should have. "And then rowing up the river in the freezing wind, and climbing a tree with soaking wet pants."  
He hadn't had time to change after their triumph. After Valentin had escaped to take care of the evening's final preparations, Juste Jules, Yves and Nicole had dragged him here, to receive a well-earned mix of congratulation and jibes.  
He blamed the chill, that he still felt despite sitting next to the fire, for letting the woman get on his nerves. He knew he'd almost ruined the show, and that he deserved a moderate tongue-lashing, but the passive-aggressive way she was blowing hot and cold was more than a little annoying. He'd given them their greatest triumph, for God's sake!

He remembered the way the crowd had cheered, after he'd shouted his poorly written line over their heads. The way in which, after sitting a bit awkwardly on his branch, and only briefly wondering what to do next, he'd jumped, sending a jolt up along his left leg as he'd landed on the ground, and started strolling in the direction of the porch, trying hard not to limp or shiver.  
The crowd had parted.  
The excitable, coarse and slightly aggressive crowd had fallen silent and bloody  _parted_ , clearing him a path right to the stage, that he'd nonchalantly climbed up onto/ascended, and the play had resumed as if nothing had happened.  
No, he mentally corrected himself. It had resumed  _in peace_.  
There had been no food noises, no whistling, no comments, and everyone had heard them, gasped and laughed at the expected moments, and everything had been quiet, save from some baby crying during the wedding scene, until they had bowed and received a roaring ovation.  
That had been so much worth the almost livre he'd spent to reach his viewpoint!  
"Well, that was impressive," Nicole admitted, as if she'd read his thoughts, and he felt a weight leaving his chest. "But..." she added, and grabbed his earlobe.  
"Ow!" he protested, as his head followed the motion to Nicole's hissing mouth.  
"Put my father in danger again, and I'll wipe that arrogant smile off your face."  
"You wound me," he complained when she released him. "I never miss. And," he quickly appended when she glared, "I wasn't smiling!"  
"Oh, you were. In your mind."  
He was about to object when Yves giggled, his cleft lip making him spit a bit:  
" _Shee'th_ right you know," he said. "I  _thaw_ it too."  
The little traitor!  
Aramis reached for the tankard the lad had stolen from Nicole. "No more ale for you."  
He ignored Yves' offended huff and, since his disloyal digression had failed to divert Nicole's flinty glare from him, shot Juste Jules an imploring glance. But his friend shrugged:  
"I'm sorry, mate. You're on your own."  
Aramis gaped. A moment later, a pitcher had materialized before his eyes.  
"Here." Yves jested. "Take thish one too. You're gonna need it."  
They were all laughing when their leader entered the tavern.  
"Here!" Aramis called. "Val…" At the stern look on the man's face, the rest of his invitation died on his lips. "What happened?"  
Valentin sat besides Nicole and poured himself a large measure of ale, that he gulped down before answering:  
"Tonight's representation is canceled."  
"What!?"  
That was Nicole, and Aramis had never heard such a shock in his friend's voice. Not even when she'd been almost stabbed by a mugger, several months before.  
"But why?" Juste Jules asked, in a tone someone less aware than Aramis would have found composed.  
Their leader breathed out heavily:  
"I've talked to Grantier. There have been complaints. Regarding our… morals."  
Aramis froze. None of them, not even Valentin, were exceedingly scrupulous in regards to such. Or,rather, in regards to what society as a whole proclaimed to be honorable behavior. That had never been an issue before. The hypocritical disdain for their profession went hand in hand with a great deal of indulgence. It allowed the good people to persuade themselves they were right not to want their sons and daughters near the travelling tribe. But what had been acceptable for a modest country company might have been frowned upon coming from artists who were supposed to play the Grand Theatre. And if they had offended the wrong person…  
"My father will lock me up until I marry François if he realizes I didn't spend the night in my room." Lucie had said, with her refined, well-educated voice.  
Was she the daughter of a nobleman?  
How late was she home this morning?  
He hoped she was unarmed, but couldn't help his worries for the troupe to rapidly surpass those he felt on her behalf.  
That was it. He'd screwed up. The Valentins had done everything for him. They had tolerated his escapades with no more than amused shakes of the head and half-hearted advice to be more cautious, and he'd let them down, and nothing he could do could ever repay them. He had a moment to wonder what to do - go to the Grand Theatre and plead those concerned not to blame his friends for his sole shameful behavior? surrender to the justice of whoever the offended party was'? or simply leave them and never come back? But then, he noticed that Valentin was looking steadily at Juste Jules. The strongman tensed. His jaw briefly tightened in anger before his shoulders slumped and he sighed. When his voice came out, it was filled with nothing but sadness.  
"I'm sorry," he said, and stood up, then turned on his heels.

**À suivre :)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, all the places I mentioned in this chapter are real. In the actual world, you would probably not have been able to see the cathedral's porch from up a tree near the bank of the Loire, but I went to the place (not for the purpose of this fic, I'm not crazy), I did work with a map (well, OK, maybe I'm a lil' bit) and dug up the actual names of the streets and the islands at the time (I… I JUST LIKE THINGS TO BE ACCURATE, OKAY?!)  
> A huge thanks to Pika_La_Cynique for the proofreading, and to those who follow me to have born with the wait.


	9. Chapter 9

“I can’t believe he was such a fool!”  
Aramis didn’t answer. He knew better than to argue with Nicole when she was in such a mood.  
“Everybody knows that the vicomte de Cénon is a vicious brat. Everybody knows how he uses his… playthings. Everybody knows that some of them even disappear, sometimes… and everybody knows that his father would do anything to prevent those who don’t from spreading rumors about his son’s… inclinations!”  
_With only moderate success, apparently,_ Aramis reflected.  
He wasn’t sure why de Cénon's old man had gone to the trouble of quashing their contract with the theater, but it looked more like the cheap thrill of doing harm than a serious attempt to save his heir’s already wrecked reputation.  
_Like father, like son,_ he mused, before dispelling the thought, because, in his own experience, nothing was further from the truth than this old adage.  
“Juste Jules could be with anyone he likes!’” Nicole insisted. “Why did he have to set his sights on this mockery of a lord?”  
“Maybe ‘cause **he** was the one he liked.” Aramis tried, and immediately regretted it. “Just saying,” he added. Nicole stopped staring at him like she wanted to bite his head off, and sighed:  
“Cénon’s not even handsome!”  
That, many people would have disagreed with. Aramis had only met the vicomte once. It was soon after their arrival at Tours, and the lad was among the officials who had welcomed the artists who were to partake into the main festivities. He was a pale, almost fragile gentleman, with a thin face made even longer by straight, fair hair always worn down to his shoulders. However, he cut an arresting figure, with high, broad shoulders on a wiry frame, and deep blue eyes that glinted with a twisted intelligence that could pass for character. His detached irony completed the trick. Of course, Nicole, self-assured and logical as she was, wouldn’t have fallen for this. But Aramis, who’d learned very soon than his alluring appearance alone was not enough to award him inspiring and entertaining relationships, could easily picture how someone shy and romantic like Juste Jules could succumb to such a smooth poseur.  
And regret it.  
After the strongman had left them at the tavern, and Valentin explained everything, they’d gone to look for him. One hour of fruitless searching later, they’d agreed to split up. Nicole had suggested they try the small watermill, about a mile and a half from the city, where she knew their friend had met his lover before.

Frankly, Aramis wasn’t sure why Nicole was so mad at Juste Jules. Yes, meddling in this notoriously corrupt young vicomte’s affairs was hazardous at best, especially coming from the usually sensible strongman. But they were all a reckless bunch. Yves poached for the sheer pleasure of it; there’d been a month when Aramis had spent almost every other night in the bed of a different - often otherwise engaged - girl... even Valentin, once, had managed to get them ran out of town after having ridiculed a bigoted marquis in a play. And Nicole was the worst of them. It had been her idea to climb the shaky and mossy walls of that abandoned church when he’d nearly broken his neck trying to save hers, she’d bedded more men than he had women, she wasn’t afraid to draw a blade despite having been, before he took it upon himself to provide her with some remedial courses, barely able to use it… and she shot at bandits, broke too-forward suitors' noses, and basically would give anyone, anytime, a piece of her unsolicited opinion.  
“Climbing is supposed to be dangerous!” she would laugh. Or : “Do you really think I managed to survive by lowering myself to what was expected of me?”, “I won’t get raped or murdered waiting for someone to rescue me!”.  Also: “Life is a deadly disease. Let’s make the best out of it!”  
Nicole was proud, unfettered and even more reckless than he was.  
He admired her for that.  
So, even after having endured her unusual litany of complains, it still came as a surprise when they made out Juste Jules’ voice, behind the noise of the watermill and she growled:  
“I’m going to kill him!”  
But then, they heard other sounds and the young woman stopped.  
“Wait,” she said, and Aramis protested:  
“I wasn’t...”  
“Shush! ”  
He mentally rolled his eyes. The mill was a notorious place for libertines to meet with each other. But the shouts behind the stone walls had nothing to do with pleasure. “Liar” and “degenerate,” Aramis picked up. Then, a thud. He and Nicole barely exchanged a glance before rushing to the site of the altercation.

Juste Jules was there. So were three lads. Kicking and yelling obscenities at the strongman, who lay on his side, quick enough to block the most dangerous blows, strong enough to roll with the others, but seemingly incapable - or unwilling - to fight back.  
“Stop!” Aramis shouted at the same time as Nicole, and three heads looked up at them. He knew the older one. He’d been at one of their first representations, and asked for shooting tips. Nicole was running to their friend, so he growled:  
“Julien? What in God’s name...”  
The young man had the decency to blush, but his shame was promptly replaced by angry arrogance:  
“What? Are you going to stand by this invert?”  
Aramis felt his hand instinctively land on the pommel of his sword when he answered:  
“What if I do?”  
One of the lads stepped closer, ready to draw his own blade. The other one followed, less confident, but Julien raised an arm and they stopped.  
“You can't ignore what he did, Aramis,” he argued, his soothing tone tainted with a hint of alarm. “He attempted to seduce our master, then stole from him and when his plans failed, he tried to tarnish his reputation!”  
Juste Jule’s hand closed on the pendant he’d been wearing for two days, and Nicole argued back:  
“By what magic would he steal from him **and** fail?”  
When the three lads conspicuously disregarded her intervention, she insisted: “It's common knowledge that the vicomte has bedded about half of the youths of Tours who are of age, regardless of their gend...”  
The one with the blade growled:  
“How would you know, you half-b…”  
Aramis didn’t have the time to protest before Juste Jule spoke at last:  
“I would not finish that sentence, if I were you.”  
“Really? What are you going to do, you big lump? Cuddle me to death?”  
Juste Jules was standing, now, his cheekbone blue and nose bleeding, ready to face his three attackers bare-handed. That forced Aramis to, unusually enough, play the role of the voice of reason:  
“He won’t do anything, and neither shall I, if you mind your tongue in front of the lady.” When that succeeded in restoring a semblance of calm, he sighed: “Go home, Julien. Your master has already won.”  
There was a brief moment of uncertainty before the lad backed off, not without an ostensible snort.  
“I just can’t understand how you can mingle with his kind,” he muttered, his eyes shifty but his tone reeking of contempt. A jerk of his chin gave his companions the signal to withdraw but Aramis noticed the shame on Juste Jules’ face and felt his own fury grow.  
He knew the sort of attitudes the strongman had to deal with. He caught the glances and heard the whispers. More than once, he’d seen his friend come back from some errand, shoulders hunched and gaze downwards, and he knew the hurt behind the self-deprecating humor, the desperation within the running joke that he will end his life alone, eaten by stray cats. They never discussed the matter in detail because what was there to say anyway? There was nothing they could do to help, so they just settled for being there when he needed them, which was remarkably seldom, as it turned out. So yes, he was aware that Juste Jules’ mere existence challenged other men's confidence, and the extent of the hate that ensued. But witnessing it directly was something else. All of a sudden, he wanted to beat the crap out of these three fools. To make them endure the same pain they had inflicted on his friend and almost said to Nicole. No matter if they really were the vicomte’s entourage, no matter if hurting them would only harm the Valentins’ further, he wanted them to pay for their ignorance.  
But ignorance it was. Julien was not a mean-spirited boy. When they’d talked together, he’d been curious, smart, humble even. And he’d looked up to him. For the unsophisticated country chevalier who’d never left his farm, Aramis had been a role model, and, with Juste Jules disqualified for idiotic but obvious reasons, a paragon of virility. So, Aramis made what seemed to himat the time a perfectly sensible decision.  
He moved towards Juste Jules with a smile, asked:  
“Are you hurt?”  
And before the strongman finished his “I’m fine,” planted a kiss on his lips.  
His anger deflated at once.  
First, because he felt a bit stupid.  
Then because Julien and his friends’ gasps of horror were a treat to the ear.  
But mainly because the situation, as ridiculous as it was, didn’t feel as wrong as it should have. He couldn’t say that he enjoyed it, not as he did when he put his lips on some woman’s. Yet, the sweet, intimate gesture seemed barely more inappropriate than a manly hug, and the hateful disdain it fathered was resultantly displayed in all its absurdity.  
He released his friend and glared at the three bullies.  
“Anything wrong?” he spat, and was rewarded by three flabbergasted faces, a series of stutters, the loss of any scrap of esteem Julien might have still held for him, and a supposedly dignified but indubitably distressed hasty retreat that made the latter worth it.  
He watched the lads leave and heard Nicole chuckle, before his hand, that was still gripping Juste Jules’ doublet, was abruptly brushed away. He turned his head to confront his friend and was met with a furious glance that cooled him off at once.  
“What the Hell was that?” the strongman barked.  
“That was… me? Kissing you?” he tried, not sure what the source of his friend’s anger was, but figuring some levity might ease it.  
“You think it's funny?”  
“No. Well, yes, actually, but not the way you…”  
Aramis considered himself pretty skilled when it came to understand other people's feelings but, for the first time in years, he was completely  lost. If someone had asked him a moment ago, he would have sworn Juste Jules simply didn’t have it in him to even speak a bit sharply to a loved one. Now, some part of his mind wondered, with more apprehension than he wished, if his friend was not about to punch him. He raised his arms in a sign of appeasement, and heard Nicole whispering:  
“Juste Jules…”  
There was a flash of pain in the strongman’s eyes, as if himself was caught off guard by his violent outburst. He inhaled sharply, but his voice was still unsettled when he spoke:  
“I’m not some… art project.”  
“What?” Aramis mouthed, too stunned to express his concern.  
“I’m not some art project, that you can slip back to whenever it suits your fantasies or your desire to play the hero!”  
Aramis grimaced at the “fantaisies.” He was not sure what Juste Jules had meant exactly but, considering all the times the man had teased him about his lovely face, delicate fingers and incredible hair, he would have believed him to be rather flattered by his unconventional way of saving his honor. But some remnants of common sense told him that was the last thing to say.  
“ **I** like playing the hero?” he snapped instead. “That’s pretty rich, coming from you!”  
Well, that was not terribly diplomatic either, but Aramis was starting to get tired of being chewed out, first by Nicole, then by the three imbeciles, and now by the man he’d put his own reputation at stake to defend. Sure, he would go through everything again without a moment’s thought, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel he was maybe owed SOME gratitude.  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Juste Jules asked gravely.  
“Guys,” Nicole tried to temperate, and was, for once, fully ignored.  
“It means,” Aramis elaborated. “That I once had to almost climb on your back to stop you from beating to death a bourgeois who’d molested a child, that you were ready to be slaughtered by those muttonheads to save Nicole from invective, but when it’s you who’s in danger, you seem hardy able to remember how to use these muscles of yours.”  
“What, I should have let them humiliate her? Or let that degenerate assault a baby girl?”  
Aramis snarled: “Right, yes, that’s totally what I meant.”  
“I’m not a pretty knight like you, Aramis. I’m no sharpshooter, I’m not some charming hedonist who can just follow his heart to whatever heap of shit he can forget himself in, I like my life,  simple as it is, and I have nothing to prove!”  
“Wha… wha… wha…” Aramis stammered, and a part of his brain reminded him of Valentin’s hopeless acting lessons, the old man’s voice telling him that was exactly the kind of situation from which  he could gather inspiration for their next farce. The other part managed to regain control of the flow of his thoughts: “Why are you even talking to me like this?”  
The distressed question, childish and candid as it was, seemed to appease Juste Jules’ anger. But it was replaced by something else. Something Aramis had only seen before in his father’s and, on rare occasions, Isabelle’s eyes.  
Disappointment?  
Juste Jules sighed anew.  
“Just… Screw you, Aramis,” he grumbled. But there was no heat in the rebuff.  
When he turned on his heels, Aramis pondered whether or not to follow him, but Nicole’s hand landed on his shoulder and he felt suddenly weary.  
“Well, you’re welcome, you ingrate oaf,” he blurted out inarticulately. The woman’s fingers tightened on his skin.  
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s have a drink.”

 xxxx

“I just don’t get it!” Aramis wailed, draining his fifth glass of wine - or was it the sixth? It was difficult to keep count with Nicole always refilling his cup. “‘just tried to help.”µ  
“Well, maybe there were less… effusive ways,” she smiled.  
“Admittedly,” he conceded. “But I wanted to make a point.”  
“And what would that have been?”  
“That… If I was not ashamed to kiss another man, they… well… they should… I don’t know! But I did save his ass, and if I embarrassed him, he couldda just told me.”  
“He was frustrated is all. And embarrassed yes, but not by what you did. Well, not only. As you so… forcefully mentioned, he’s a strong, healthy young man, and he was unable to defend himself. And lo, in comes you, in all your glory, saving the day…”  
“I was not trying to show off.”  
“Weren’t you?  
“No! I… what? So you’re on his side, now?”  
Nicole refilled both their glasses.  
“I’m on nobody’s side. It’s just… Difference is not a costume you can wear or not, depending on your mood. If Juste Jules embraced existence as you do, if he went ahead and was himself, he could end up dead.”  
“We all could.”  
“So, now you’re being dense.”  
Aramis was too tired and drowsy to take offense. Besides, Nicole was right. He understood perfectly what she’d said, yet this fatalism that sounded a lot like giving up all claims on happiness infuriated him. Juste Jules deserved a good life, and if a little provocation could make the others reconsider their preconceptions, he was willing to risk his own safety for it. He drank and sighed:  
“Well, I’m sorry, all right? And I do tend to try to draw attention. But he couldda just… told me, instead of throwin’ all those things at my face.”  
First, Nicole said nothing, and Aramis reached for the bottle just to fill the uneasy silence. When she spoke at last, he spilled some wine on the table.  
“He’s worried,” she stated. “That you’ll leave us.”  
“Why would I do that?” he asked, almost offended.  
“To search for Isabelle. Or just because you want more?”  
Something in Aramis’ addled mind told him that Nicole had associated these two unrelated propositions only to give him the opportunity to pick the less painful one to answer. Sadly, they both stung, for different reasons. He hated being called a snob by his best friends when easiness and openness were some of the few qualities he’d always been confident he’d been blessed with. He wasn’t sure himself why his life with the Valentin troupe had not been as satisfactory as he’d hoped, and didn’t feel like discussing it now, but it might have been better than talking about Isabelle. She had family near Tours. He had told Nicole, two years ago, and, of course, she would not have forgotten. This was the last place he was aware that she was connected to which he had not checked; failing to find her here would likely spell the end of his quest...  
And some part of him wished for it.  
He had barely thought about his beloved during the past month, he knew he should have hated himself for it, but only hated himself for not being able to hate himself.  
He let out a small laugh.  
It was ridiculous.  
He was still holding the bottle firmly. Nicole took it from his fingers, finished pouring him a glass, and generously filled hers before draining it. Then, she motioned him to drink.  
“Are you trynna get me drunk?” he asked, but clumsily brought the cup to his lips anyway.  
She smirked.  
“Am I succeeding?”  
It took his brain a moment to process the question, then another to come up with a witty answer.  
“Yes,” he eventually settled on with a smile. Or a pout. Or maybe a grin. Nicole laughed.  
The little witch!  
As much as he liked partying, and despite how any event, from a new employment to a _sou_ found on the street, was a celebration for the Valentins, Aramis had only been truly intoxicated twice in his life. The first time, he’d been fourteen and sneaked in his father’s distillery with some friends. It had been the only occasion the old man had ever beaten him, and, if it hadn’t improved their relationship, he’d thought better than to repeat the misdeed. The second time was during what the chevalier d'Herblay had called his “unmanageable stage”. After a particularly nasty fight, he’d left the manor and gone to the tavern, for the sole purpose of challenging the rules. He’d entered the place like he owned it, and ordered a bottle of the innkeeper’s “special brew,” feeling very pleased when nobody had questioned his age or identity. He had not liked the taste at all, and the poison had been potent enough to fill his head with a disorienting buzz after only one glass, but the liquor had cost a large portion of his small allowance and, not willing to throw it away, he’d kept drinking until the entire room was dancing around him. How he’d managed to get back home  without either falling from his horse or being noticed was a question that still eluded him completely but, next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his bed, waiting, in a half-daze, for the infuriating vertigo to recede. Needless to say,  neither experience had been especially pleasant, and had left him wondering why so many people seemed to enjoy the feeling.  
But now, with Nicole, the person he trusted more than anyone in the world, by his side, sharing the bottle, the worries and the laughs alike, it was different. They could go on like this, he thought. Drinking and talking and teasing each other until they were both too inebriated to keep their eyes open, and make a fresh start in the morning.  
“I don’t want more,” he finally answered, his voice more slurred than he’d have expected. Nicole blinked and he added: “Have you forgotten what you just asked me?”  
“No?”  
He grinned.  
“I don’t want more than I already have. I love you all, you’re family. Just wish your talent was recognized. Y’all deserve better than being threatened or hit on by drunkards, and cheered by morons who believe what they see on stage is real.”  
Nicole rested her head on his shoulder.  
“That’s the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me!”  
It was a pretty lame joke, but he burst out laughing anyway. She followed suit, which made him laugh harder, and they were both giggling hysterically when Valentin entered the joint.  
Their leader’s anxious countenance, along with the large sword and two pistols hanging at his belt, should have gathered their attention, but they just stayed slumped on their bench as he made his way to their table through the agitated crowd.  
“He looks upset,” Nicole finally stated.  
“Well, it’s been a pretty crappy day.”  
“Yeah.”  
Valentin almost ran into a tavern girl who barely saved her charge from falling off her plate before stopping in front of them.  
“You have to come with me,” he said. And when that failed to earn more than two confused stares: “Juste Jules is in danger.”  
The next moment, Aramis was on his feet; and a second later, on the floor. The world was spinning precariously and it took him some time to locate Nicole’s voice above his head. When he finally met her eyes (or, more correctly, the blurry thing that was her face at present) he managed to comprehend the end of a question: “… mis, my God! Are you okay?”  
“Did I fall?” he asked, and she burst into a fit of laughter.  
Valentin, for his part, was less than amused:  
“Are you both drunk? It’s five in the afternoon!”  
“M’fine,” Aramis answered and, for some reason, that made Nicole laugh harder. He ignored her: “What happened?”  
“Well, you fell,” their leader replied, a bit confused, as he hauled him to his feet. Not trusting his legs, Aramis grabbed the older man’s shoulder and made an effort not to snap:  
“Not to me. To Juste Jules.”  
“Oh. He went to his charming suitor's place. Apparently, he’d sent a letter, and de Cénon agreed to meet him. I tried to convince him not to go, but he was determined to make the vicomte's father reconsider his… sentence. I asked Yves to follow him. The boy came back an hour later. De Cénon had some guests. There was some kind of… party. I’m not sure what they’re doing there but Yves heard shouts and he’s confident he recognized our friend’s voice.”  
That was a lot more information than Aramis was currently able to proceed, but he got the essential:  
“We have to help Juste Jules!”  
“Well, that is why I came,” Valentin obligingly reminded. “But you don’t seem to be in any condition for that.”  
Aramis shook his head to clear it. When that failed, he turned to Nicole who‘d pushed herself away from the table:  
“Nicole? Slap me.”  
“What?”  
“Slap me in the face. And don’t hold back.”  
There was another hesitation in her eyes before his head was thrown sideways in a flash of pain.  
“Better?” she asked while he blinked furiously to keep the buzz that ensued at bay.  
“Think so.”  
Actually, he rather guessed that a second blow might better finish the job, but he was not sure he could handle it. Besides, Valentin looked worried enough that there was no need to upset him further. Nicole seemed to believe him, or pretend to for the same reason, because she declared:  
“Good. let’s go!”, threw some coins on the table, and made her way out of the tavern.

x

À suivre :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, I’m not sure that Aramis kissing Juste Jules on the lips would have been that shocking (if shocking at all) at the time. The charming “no homo!” trend that tends to deprive men from showing physical affection to each other is quite recent, and homosexuality itself seemed a bit less frown upon then. For example, Philippe d’Orléans, youngest brother of Louis the Fourteenth, was famously encouraged to have romantic relationships with other boys, for various reasons I won’t develop here. I chose to follow The Three Musketeers’ tradition that, both in Dumas and the show, uses a historical context to discuss current sociological issues. But, for the sake of science, I am more than willing to admit that my scene is probably not historically accurate :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! A quick update!  
> Actually, I wrote this chapter and the previous one together, before realizing the result was twice as big as what I usually post, so, and because I found the whole thing a bit too massive anyway, I cut it in half. Enjoy :)

 

Once outside, the fresh air finished somewhat clearing his head. Night was already falling, but that didn’t discourage the merrymakers. Some lanterns had started to illuminate the streets, and costumed people were now dancing and singing, improvisers mixing with the artists who’d been hired to enliven the town. It took them longer than it would normally to reach the vicomte’s house and, almost the whole time, Nicole complained about Juste Jules’ obstination and recklessness.  
“It’s you we should have been talkin’ about,” he told her, as they waited for a coach to make its way through the crowd.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Why are you so mad?”  
“Isn’t that obvious?”  
“Well, no. Not when we’ve both done far worse.”  
“He’s supposed to be the reasonable one.”  
Aramis wanted to argue, but the path was clear again and Valentin had resumed his walk. It was a bit complicated to think after so much wine, yet he still felt like Nicole had eluded his question. He had never seen her so angry… or angry period, really. She liked to grumble at their foolishness and play big sister with him and Yves, but she was usually the first to spot the fun in any trouble they found themselves in. And fun it would be to rescue the sensible and mature Juste Jules twice in a single day, and tease him endlessly about it once safe.

When they made it to the house, he rushed to the main door before Valentin grabbed him by the arm and, without even a raised eyebrow, directed him to the gardens. Yves jumped out of a bush and pointed at a large window on the first floor.  
“You ha _f_ no idea what I _sh_ aw,” he said breathlessly. And, after a small pause: “Actually, I ha _f_ no idea what I _sh_ aw my _ss_ elf.”  
The windowpanes were resting on the catch despite the cold outside, all steamy from the heat within. Aramis tried to make sense of the muffled noises. There were shouts and laughter, the faint sound of a harpsichord, and it was probably his imagination, but he thought he could hear their friend’s voice, frightened yet proud, among the cacophony. At a gesture from Yves, Valentin approached the wall and poked at the leafy stems that crawled over it to test their solidity.  
“Ivy!” Aramis exclaimed joyfully. “We’re gonna climb th’ivy!”  
“Shush!” Nicole scowled, and Valentin sent him a concerned look.  
“Seriously, lad. Are you up to this?”  
“Of course! I’ve just always wanted to climb ivy. There was some under mademoiselle Rivière’s windows, you remember? But I never…”  
Yves nudged him and he finally piped down.  
“... had the occasion. Anyway. Shall we?”  
“I shall go,” Valentin retorted, with a withering gaze at Nicole who couldn’t help smirking, after all. “I’ll have a look. Depending on what I witness, we’ll decide what to do.”  
It took him less than a minute to reach the window. Valentin, a natural-born actor, with all the energy the craft implied, still had the strength and endurance of a young man. After climbing down, he eyed Yves.  
“You’ll stand guard,” he instructed. “If we’re not back in an hour, take the cart and leave town.”  
“What? I’m old enou _f_ to fight!”  
“But not to be any part of… this,” their leader countered, and Aramis would have sworn he saw him blush.  
Some amount of persuasion was necessary to convince the lad to stay behind, and he only accepted on condition that he’d not leave before going to the authorities first.  
“They won’t do a thing against the vicomte,” Nicole objected.  
“No, but _s_ ey might get here _th_ ust in time to keep _s_ em from killing you all.”  
An arrest could save their skins tonight indeed, Aramis thought, but would doubtlessly just delay the sentence. If having an affair with de Cénon equaled being forbidden to work for the theater, breaking into his home during a private gathering would probably not be met with leniency.  
“It’s an orgy,” Valentin explained, as factually as he’d describe a reunion of ladies of good breeding against gambling. “I have no idea if Juste Jules was aware of that when he came, but he now appears to be a markedly unwilling prisoner. On the left when you get in. He’s bound to some… piece of wood, I don’t know. A door, perhaps, that has been reshaped for some devilish purpose. Not gagged. I counted five men and six women. All unarmed except maybe some knives, half of them in various states of undress, but I’d bet they’re keeping their swords within reach. Most of them are drunk, on what I have no idea, but there was a girl passed out on the floor, her eyes open, and even from where I stood I could see her pupils were dilated. The vicomte is present, so is one of his most trusted lieutenants. Both are lying on a couch to the far right of the room, with a middle-aged woman and a lad. Prostitutes, maybe. With the exception of three of the men, I’d be surprised if any of the guests lifts a finger if in case of danger, but remain vigilant. Aramis, you’re our best fighter. You’ll go first, but don’t start shooting or provoking them without reason. Oh, and, given the state you’re in - don’t protest ! I’ll advise you not to blindly trust your instincts tonight. I’ll follow. Nicole, you go last and I don’t want you to take any chances unless it becomes a matter of life or death. You’re our backup. You’ll keep your gun trained on the more pugnacious ones, nothing more. Understood?”  
Nicole nodded. Aramis, for his part, was still processing all this information when he started climbing the ivy. The experience proved less fun than expected. It had rained two days before, the leaves left an unpleasant wetness on the skin and the branches were slippery. One broke under his weight, yet he firmly held his position, not even bothering Valentin behind him. When he reached the window, he waited for a rush of nausea to recede and peeked inside. Everything was exactly as the old man had described, with the addition of various objects on the floor and furniture, whose functions he could only guess at from their suggestive appearances. There was a stool, in particular, with a very explicit appendage, but he had to wonder how you were supposed to use all the handles. A woman was half-heartedly playing the harpsichord, not far from Juste Jules, who was indeed bound to what had once been a door, his arms above his head, bare-chested and sweaty, the pendant his lover had gifted him still hanging at his neck. He was speaking, so Aramis waited.  
“Your father will not know, Étienne,” he was saying, his tone anxious but proud. A soft, suave, voice answered:  
“I’m afraid he will. I’m deeply sorry, my dear, but even I am not powerful enough to go against his will.”  
He was charming, this slender, blond and blue-eyed vicomte, even in this situation. And he did seem sincere. There was a hint of annoyance in his manners. Stiff lips, furrowed eyebrows, a bitter look he might not have been aware of. He would obey his father without second thoughts but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Despite himself, Aramis wondered if some part of him had not loved Juste Jules after all.  
“Then release me,” the strongman insisted. “I will not bother you again.”  
“That’s what you told me last time.”  
“I certainly didn’t!”  
“Well, that’s what I heard. Didn't you, Romain?” he asked, nonchalantly turning his head to his lieutenant.  
“I did, my liege,” the man answered, and, for the life of him, Aramis couldn’t figure if the term was ironic or not. “Besides, we cannot let him go now and talk to the governor.”  
“Really?” Juste Jules exclaimed. “As if I could tell him why I came here in the first place! And as if he would do a thing against the vicomte de Cénon’s son anyway! Étienne, why are you…”  
“I guess,” de Cénon carried on, “we have no choice but to make the best out of the situation.”  
“What do you suggest, my liege?”  
The middle-aged woman on de Cénon’s lap raised herself a bit and whispered in his ear. The man laughed, and the sound sent a chill through Aramis’ spine.  
“My sweet Alienor, that is cruel, even for you.” She shrugged and he sighed: “All right, then. But put a carpet on the floor. I don’t want this poor old Pierre breaking his back scrubbing the mess.”  
At these words, Juste Jules’ eyes widened. He seemed to hesitate, not willing to humiliate himself, but his common sense kicked in:  
“Étienne,” he started. “Don’t... make me beg you.”  
“Well, **that’s** not what you said last time!” the young vicomte replied, and all his sufficiently lucid guests laughed. He reached for his belt and held a small blade to Romain. “Would you proceed?”  
“With pleasure, my liege.”  
The lieutenant walked toward Juste Jules, but the strongman ignored him:  
“ **I** begged?” he gasped in outrage. “That’s what you told everyone? Do you want me to tell them the truth? Do you want me to tell them what you said to me when you kneeled down and…”  
“Silence!” the vicomte ordered  
“You can kill me, Étienne. You can torture me, even. But you will not ridicule me. I may be of low birth but I won’t listen to your lies, I won’t let you spread them and, before I die, at least everybody in this room will know how…”  
Despite not being prone to gossip, Aramis would have very much wanted to learn what his friend was about to tell the small gathering, but, as Romain passed in front of the window, he understood he would never get a better occasion.  
“He asked to be released,” he said and, when the man turned his head, shoved the pane in his face and followed it into the room. A woman shouted and the one at the instrument stopped playing to watch him blearily. De Cénon, for his part, jumped to his feet, but most of the guests barely grunted.  
“Aramis?” he heard Juste Jules stuttering as he lowered his pistol to Romain on the floor. Then, when the others came in: “Valentin? Nicole?”  
“The one and only,” she greeted. Aramis laughed, earning a new glare from their leader and a raised eyebrow from their bound friend.  
“Don’t worry,” he tried and, teetering a bit, utterly failed to reassure his friend. “Everything’s under control.”  
“Have you any idea whose house you’re breaking into?” the vicomte roared.  
“Of course we do!” Nicole chided. “Do you think we’re some kind of amateurs?”  
“Shush,” Aramis commanded. “We’re just here for our companion. Release him, and we’ll be on our way. I mean… Please, and with all due respect… My Lord.”  
“Are you drunk?” asked Just Jules, sounding remarkably like Valentin had a moment before, with just an additional hint of panic.  
“Quite a bit,” Aramis conceded. “But to be fair, we would have done the same thing sober.”  
Valentin wisely chose this moment to step in:  
“My Lord, Messieurs, Mesdames, we are deeply ashamed to have intruded in your home in such an uncivil fashion, but we’ve found ourselves alarmingly short of options to help our friend. Juste Jules here is, as you might be aware, very dear to us, and humble entertainers though we may be, we would never leave one of ours behind.”  
The guests remained where they were slumped, patiently waiting for the commotion to end. The young vicomte was fuming, now, his teeth clenched and cheeks red, all traces of his former charm vanished.  
“I’ll have your heads!” he yelled. “All of you are good as dead, and so is that little hatched-faced brat who’s always hanging on your tail! You may walk out of here alive but I won’t have peace until I make every single one of you and your loved ones pay for this affront!”  
That sobered Aramis a bit, and a glimpse at his companions told him that, for all that they concealed it well, they were equally concerned. Could they flee the town fast enough to escape the vicomte’s wrath? And, even if they did, would such a rich and powerful man ever leave them alone? No one was easier to track down than traveling actors. They could hide, of course, but that would mean the end of their tour, and Juste Jules would never forgive himself if he caused the death of Valentin’s career after having already deprived him of his comeback.  
“Let’s play a game,” the strongman said, and everyone turned to him at once.  
“What?” four voices asked in a synchronicity that would have been comical given the right situation.  
“Let’s play. You like that, playing. My friends are drunk, and only their fear for me led them to show such a lack of… etiquette. I was the one who tainted your reputation. Don’t hold them responsible for my behavior alone. Let’s play a game. If we lose, they will apologize and you shall do anything you want with me.”  
“No w…” Aramis started, but was interrupted by the vicomte hissing:  
“I can do that already. You won’t get far.”  
“You could, but then Romain would be hurt and maybe so would you. The Guard would come, the servants you sent away for the afternoon would talk, and everybody in town would know without any more doubt what takes place in this house.”  
“Are you threatening me?”  
“I’m telling you what none of us want but will most certainly happen if we don’t reach a compromise.”  
A shadow passed on de Cénon’s face, disclosing, if there had been any need, that the word ‘compromise’ was not part of his usual vocabulary. But he saw Aramis’ pistol aimed at his friend, and Nicole’s levelled at him, and seemed to consider the offer.  
“What game are you thinking of?” he finally asked.  
For all his display of bravery Juste Jules couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. “Aramis here,” he explained, “is the best shot you’ll ever meet. You certainly heard about the show this morning.”  
“So?” the young vicomte said, his voice annoyed but his eyes curious.  
“So I’m willing to put my life into his hands. Place one of those apples on my head,” he instructed, with a gesture of his chin in the direction of a fruit basket on a mahogany table. “He’ll shoot, then I’ll be free.”  
There was an instant of silence before Valentin and Nicole starting protesting in a shocked cacophony. Aramis barely listened. The room was large, yet, even if Étienne asked him to shoot from the opposite wall, it would be nothing compared to what he’d done this morning. No, the distance would not be a problem. The amount of alcohol in his system might be one, but he’d performed sick and sleep-deprived, so he was quite confident he could manage. The problem, he thought bitterly, was that they were talking a bloody apple.  
He remembered the day he’d accepted to go off with the Valentin, almost two years prior. Nicole had suggested he could shoot apples off her head and he’d had to explain that, even if his aim had been accurate enough to hit such a small fruit, the pistol was not.  
Valentin and Nicole were still arguing with Juste Jules, to the obvious delight of the vicomte. The man would never let them go, now. He had no choice but to accept this stupid bet.  
“I can do it,” he said, silencing his two indignant friends. “With a knife.”  
“Oh no,” de Cénon smirked. “You’re supposed to be the best shot I’ll ever meet, after all. A young William Tell.”  
“William Tell had a crossbow.”  
“Yet you caught me unprepared, so we’ll have to do with what you provided yourself. Or maybe…” His smiled widened and took on an edge of pure viciousness. “Yes. I’m the offended party, after all. The choice of weapon is mine. Romain,” he asked. “Get up already, and hand me the box under the red couch.”  
The lieutenant smiled in turn. Aramis’ pistol followed him as he moved to the piece of furniture in question, and shoved off an indolent ephebe’s stockinged legs to access the hiding place. He crouched and retrieved a long, ornate box that left few doubts as to its contents.  
“I... “ Aramis started, as the vicomte opened it. “I’ve never shot with a musket.”  
“A first time for everything,” de Cénon smirked again. Nicole protested:  
“That’s impossible!”  
“It’s not,” Juste Jules said. “I trust you, Aramis.”  
But it was, and he shouldn’t. A musket was a weapon of war, that made up for its lack of accuracy with its exceptional range. It was designed to inflict maximum damage, not for showing off in a shooting contest.  
Romain held the gun out to him but he made no move to take it.  
“I trust you,” Juste Jules insisted, and Aramis could have punched the idiot.  
“No you don’t!” he yelled instead. “You cannot trust me to succeed because it’s materially beyond the bounds of possibility!”  
_And you have no right to ask such a thing from me._ _You have no right to make me bear the weight of your guilt, and assume responsibility for your sacrifice.  
_ “Take the musket, lad,” Romain said, and he seemed almost sorry when Aramis slowly took it in his hands. “Whatever you heard about my master… if you succeed, he will let you go free.”  
“Load it,” the strongman insisted. “You will shoot, I will be free, the apple will fall off my head, and whatever happens, no one will blame you.”  
_I will!_ Aramis screamed internally. _I would never...  
_ And then it hit him.  
_You will shoot. I will be free. The apple will fall.  
_ Juste Jules was pulling at his rope-bound hands so as to stretch them as far apart as he could, his eyes intent on him.  
_You will shoot.  
_**_So_** _I will be free.  
_**_Then_** _, the apple will fall.  
__Oh.  
_ Aramis took a breath along with the powder bag Romain was holding him.  
“Aramis, no!” Nicole protested again, then Valentin was pleading:  
“My Lord. I am Juste Jules’ employer and the one responsible for this intrusion. I’m sure we can…”  
Dumped the powder in the barrel, seized the worm, wadded. Tried to focus.  
“From the other side of the room,” the vicomte instructed to no-one’s surprise, and Valentin knew there was no point in arguing any longer.  
Aramis obeyed, satisfied that wary excitement seemed to have chased off his vertigo. On his way, he noticed that the guests have sobered up a bit too, their absence of reaction now testimony to a lack a character rather than a drug-induced apathy.  
At the wall, he turned and aimed.  
The unusually heavy weapon felt good on his arms and shoulder.  
He could do this.  
Well, he could try and not kill Juste Jules.  
It was still a hazardous plan.  
And a stupid one.  
He locked his eyes on his friend’s. Ignored the fear, the silent apologies, and focused on the trust. Forced himself to forget that the latter was misplaced, or at least that his companions ought not rely on his abilities as much as they did.  
He was not the best shot a nobleman like the vicomte, the heir of a military family, would ever see. He was a gifted lad who’d trained hard to keep improving and liked to make a show of his skills but rarely stepped out of his comfort zone. Even Bruneau had comprehended that. Even he had told him he should work on his swordsmanship. What would have happened if de Cénon had challenged him to a duel? Would Juste Juste have been as confident? Would Valentin and Nicole have stopped arguing so quickly?  
He aimed and felt keenly like he’d been in this situation before. This very morning. There had been other ways to make up for his delay. He could have pretended he was delivering an urgent message to break through the crowd. Or jumped on the back of some nobleman’s coach. He also could have rowed up the river and sat in the tree as he had, but only shouted at his companions on the stage. Yet, he’d chosen to make an impossible shot because it was the most obvious and thrilling thing to do. And the Valentins had approved, even Nicole, in the end.  
He held his breath.  
In this dire situation, Juste Jules had chosen to rely solely on him.  
He fired.  
The cord broke.  
Valentin yelped.  
_What did you do before you met me?_  
Juste Jules also, but it was due to the burns on his hands.  
The strongman fell to his knees.  
The apple rolled on the floor.  
“You failed,” the vicomte said, his voice uncertain.  
Aramis breathed out. His legs felt like cotton.  
“I didn’t,” he answered nervously. “Juste Jules’ conditions, that you willingly accepted, were clear: I was to shoot to free him, and the apple should fall.”  
Nicole chuckled half-heartedly.  
De Cénon tensed, then looked at Romain, and finally at his other guests. Seemed to consider the harm a broken promise would do to the fidelity of his minions. Made up his mind:  
“Get out,” he hissed. “And leave town. I won’t guarantee your safety if you’re still here in the morning.”

xxxx

The burns were slight, the splinters within bloody and painful. It was fully nighttime now, and the shed they’d sheltered their horses and coach in four days earlier had small windows, so Nicole had to light Aramis’ work with a candle. They were to leave in the morning. Valentin had ordered Yves to come with him and gone to bid farewell to the few city officials and bourgeois who were still his friends after de Cénon’s intervention.  
“Don’t look guilty,” the strongman said, his voice slurring a bit. Nicole had used some of the strong liquor she stored in a small box for these occasions on his injuries, and offered him the rest to take the edge off. He’d ended up sharing the stuff, a gesture Aramis found quite ill-advised after the wine they’d already imbibed, but he’d felt like he needed it. The draft had done wonders for his shaky limbs although it failed to help him to keep his emotions at bay.  
“I almost blew your hands off,” he said.  
“But you didn’t. And even if you had, that would have been a small price to pay to escape the bastard’s clutches.”  
“There could be permanent damage.”  
“Still worth it.”  
Aramis finished applying a thick salve on the wounds and started bandaging them. Juste Jules clenched his teeth but made no sound. As his friend tied the last knot, he sighed: “I cannot believe I was such a fool.”  
“You were in love,” Aramis found himself answering. “And I apologize. We. Apologize, “ he amended when he caught Nicole’s gaze. “We should have understood, and respected your feelings. And I should not have used you to make my point to those three morons.”  
Juste Jules chuckled.  
“Yeah. Well, you saved my sorry ass. Twice. I will never hear the end of this, I suppose.”  
“You bet you won’t!” Nicole exclaimed, and took another sip of the liquor.  
“I should be more like you,” the strongman told Aramis.  
“What? Reckless?”  
“No. Cold-blooded.” Aramis pulled a face so he promptly amended: “No. God! I… I mean that in a good way. To keep calm in situations of danger. To use all those muscles, as you said. And just enjoy life, switch partners with every town we settle in, not bothering with stupid… love.”  
Aramis' legs weakened again.  
“You’re all done,” he stated to change subject, but his quivering voice failed to achieve this goal. He coughed before adding: “Try not to move your fingers.”  
He felt his friend nodding but didn’t trust himself to lift his head. A moment passed before Nicole asked:  
“Are you crying?”  
“No!”  
_Good Lord! I hope not!_  
His vision was swimming a bit, but he had no idea if it was because of the tiredness, the alcohol or the emotions. Finally, he raised his eyes a little. Juste Jules was looking at him with renewed guilt but, before either of them could open his mouth, Nicole intervened:  
“Let’s party!” she said.  
“What?”  
“The night’s still young, Carnaval is not over and we don’t have to leave until morning. We’re together, we have some spare change and booze… Let’s party! I’ll leave a message for Valentin. He’ll understand.  
“I think I’ve drunk enough,” Aramis answered. Juste Jules added:  
“And we’ve had our share of thrills for the evening.”  
“Nonsense! We’ve been exploited, threatened and chased out of town. Are we going to let our enemies deprive us of our Carnaval? That was supposed to be our big night! It still can be. They can take away our job, they can’t take away our joie de vivre! So I say again: Let’s. Party!”  
Juste Jules truly laughed, this time, and grunted:  
“I could sell the pendant…”  
Aramis felt his own lips turn upward. He wasn’t ready to stand, though.  
“Come on!” Nicole insisted, shaking his shoulder. “You’re our hero! You saved us all!”  
“I only followed Juste Jules’ plan,” he protested, still smiling in his collar.  
“Chin up! You were the one putting it into practice when neither me nor my father were clear-headed enough to take the hint. And you held a musket, Aramis! The king of weapons! You should celebrate!”  
“Well, that did feel good.”  
“See! Now, on your feet and let’s mingle, dance in the streets and be noisy!”  
And so she won. For only a moment, Aramis decided to forget his worries, his guilt and his fears and let go. He got up, held on to Juste Jules - who was holding onto him - for support and they followed their friend out off the remote path and into the buzz and thunder of the Carnaval.  
Tomorrow, they would be on their own. With no peace, no fame, and no prospects. Fugitives almost. But at that moment, they didn’t care. They had defeated the vicomte de Cénon, they were alive, they were young, they were drunk… Nothing could harm them and everything was glorious.

x

À suivre :)


	11. Chapter 11

There were better ways to spend a day with a hangover.  
“What do you mean ‘a year ago’?” the old man croaked. “She was where?”  
“Here.” Aramis answered and quickly corrected: “ _About_ a year ago. And I’m not saying, I’m asking. She told me she had an uncle in Fondettes.  
“I had a niece of mine here a year ago?”  
Aramis refrained the urge to roll his eyes but barely managed hold a sigh. The man tensed and he cursed himself. As disjointed as his speech was, Isabelle’s uncle was not an imbecile. He had built a large inn from nothing and run a successful business for almost fifteen years before losing it all in a fire and spending the last decade drinking himself to oblivion. He’d stopped, according to the neighbours. Too late to save his family, or, as it seemed, to fully regain his wits.  
“But you remember her, don’t you?” Aramis insisted. “Blond hair. Blue eyes. Sixteen years old at the time? Pious, clever and funny, very good with horses...”  
“Ain’t had no horses for years.”  
“Oh… No, but… What I mean is...”  
“Listen, lad…” the man cut off. “I never met her. Not a year ago. Not ever. Never saw my sister since she’s fifteen. Never knew she had children. No’ you tell me she dead and had a daughter. What you want me to say?”  
“I'm… sorry,” Aramis stammered. “I just thought… I have no idea what I thought. I apologize for wasting your time.”  
He got off the rickety stool he was precariously perched on, and made for the door. The old innkeeper started uttering vague words of comfort, and the broken litany escorted him on his way out.  
“If she come,” the man added from his own chair. “I’ll tell her you search for her.”  
 _She won’t come._ Aramis mused. _She will never come and I will never see her again.  
_ _And that should hurt more than it does._  
“I thank you, Sir,” he said instead.

Juste Jule’s voice caught him as he was saddling up.  
“Unsuccessful, were you?”  
He refrained from snapping at him. He knew the strongman didn’t mean to tease him, but his friends’ constant reminders that he would have already found Isabelle if he was meant to had become less and less subtle since their arrival at Tours. It was very tempting to take out his frustration on the first person fool enough to greet him with I-told-you-sos.  
“I was,” he answered, and couldn’t help but add: “As you so sagaciously predicted.”  
Juste Jules shifted nervously on his own horse.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“I don’t think you are.”  
He was glad to hear the weariness just about win out over the bitterness in his voice. Juste Jules probably noticed, since he felt it was safe to press the matter further:  
“Well, you’re wrong. I believe you won’t find her, but I do wish you would, if only to…”  
Aramis tensed and pulled Ébène’s reins.  
“To what?”  
“Forget it.”  
“Oh no, you don’t get to do that. I didn’t ask you to come with me. Actually, if I remember correctly, I specifically told you to wait with the others until I got back. So either leave me be or speak your mind!”  
He’d expected the gentle strongman to mumble some apologies, and was completely taken aback when he promptly retorted:  
“To realize you don’t love her anymore.”  
After a moment, Juste Jules looked away, and Aramis understood that was because he’d been staring at him in silence the whole time.  
“I…” he started, and had to cough for the lie to leave his lips: “I still love her.”  
His friend didn’t even dignify this with an answer. He kicked his horse and headed to the wood where Valentin, Nicole and Yves were waiting.  
“I still love her!” Aramis insisted to his back, and the strongman turned on his saddle to face him.  
“You’ve never looked for her since the day you joined us, Aramis. It’s been months since you even mentioned her name. You only remembered her uncle when we arrived at Tours, and even then you bedded three different women less than a week! Only your persistence at resisting Nicole’s advances fooled us for a time, but we all came to realize that you simply didn’t see her that way.”  
 _Nicole made advances to me?  
_ “What was I supposed to do? Write poems? Bore you to death with my endless lamentations? And live like a monk?”  
“No!” Juste Jules exclaimed with marked exasperation. “No, you weren’t! Because you did everything you could back then! You asked her to be your wife, you took care of her after she lost the baby, you talked to her father, and searched for her even if it meant renouncing your inheritance. You weren’t supposed to let that tragedy define the rest of your life, and you didn’t, because, deep down, you knew there’s nothing more you could have done. Because it’s been full-on a year, Aramis, and you’re a smart and attractive young man who’s got every bloody right to move on!”  
“I still love her,” Aramis heard himself insisting, this time with at least some confidence. “She’s the first woman I ever loved and the mother of my dead child. I’ll never stop loving her.”  
“You know what I mean.”  
“I…”  
 _I do.  
_ _I do know what you mean, and I know you speak the truth, because I wouldn’t be so mad at you for telling it if you weren't. And I’m not angry, the same way I’m not sad that Isabelle wasn’t at her uncle’s, as if I ever believed for a second she would have been! There’s a reason I delayed my visit. And I should face it but I can’t, because if I stop loving Isabelle, I stop searching for her, and if I stop searching for her, what am I supposed to do with my life?  
_ “Aramis?”  
 _When did I stop? When did I renounce such a romantic quest and, when I did, why did I stay with the Valentins when I know I will never be an actor?  
_ “Aramis...”  
 _Was I too proud to go back? Or too lost to call Herblay my home?  
_ “Aramis.”  
“What?”  
“You can cry on my shoulder if you wish.”  
Aramis raised his eyes and found the grinning face of his friend. He did his best to conjure his most judgmental glare.  
“Oh come on!” Juste Jules exclaimed.”Don’t pretend you don’t crave some brotherly love.”  
Aramis tried to growl but the strongman’s arm was now on his back, his other hand reaching for his head.  
“Stop it!”  
“That’s not what you told me yesterday. ‘Oh, Juste Jules! You’re my best friend and I looove you’!”  
“I certainly never said that!”  
“How would you remember?”  
“I was not _that_ drunk.”  
“Drunk enough to confess your deep, unconditional affection for me. Just after I dragged your sorry ass to bed, you said that I deserved to be loved, and asked me if I was happy because, and I quote: ‘Oh, Juste Jules, I reeeeally want you to be happy.’”  
“And I stand by my word, but stop cuddling me. You’ll make me fall from my horse!”  
“I’ll stop if you quit sulking.”  
“I’m not…” Aramis started, then felt himself losing his grip on Ébène’s flanks. “All right, I’ll stop! Just don’t…”  
Juste Jules caught his arm just in time to save him from a rather undignified tumble, and hauled him back into place on his saddle as if he weighed nothing. Not for the first time, Aramis admired how such a powerful man had adopted such a peaceful existence. There was violence in him, though. He’d witnessed on a couple of occasions how his friend could lay into those who threatened innocents. But, even then, he always kept his strength in check, and Aramis was not sure if it was in his nature or something he had had to learn.  
“So why are you staring at me like that, now?” the strongman asked, not losing his smile. Aramis smirked in turn:  
“I was just wondering.”  
“What?”  
“You really think that I’m smart and attractive?”  
“Oh shut up!” Juste Jules grumbled. And Aramis could have sworn he’d seen him blush.

xxxx

“Nicole gave me quite a hard time, you know.”  
Aramis raised a brow. They’d been riding in silence for a while, and his friend’s unexpected statement had snapped him out of his self-centered reveries.  
“What? When?”  
“This morning, after you left. Might have been what finished convincing me to go after you.”  
“What did you do?”  
“Nothing. She just decided to chastise me for my reckless behavior with Cénon. Apparently, fleeing death threats with a hangover after having lost a fantastic work opportunity was as good a time as any.”  
Aramis snorted.  
“Nicole is the most reckless of us all.”  
He’d expected the strongman to laugh with him, and was surprised to see his face sink.  
“Did I say something stupid?”  
“No,” Juste Jules smiled. “She’s so foolhardy she makes you look wise. She just thinks I shouldn’t follow her example.”  
“Because she believes you wouldn’t even squash a mosquito unless it bit your friends?”  
“Because she knows I have the luxury of avoiding it.”  
Aramis raised a brow.  
“I… don’t understand.”  
Juste Jules visibly held back a sigh, then started fidgeting with his reins, and Aramis wondered if there had not been a hidden reason behind the strongman’s appearance at Isabelle’s uncle’s place. Nicole had been grumpy when he’d left earlier that morning, and he’d blamed it on the hangover. She was lucky enough to not usually suffer much from such ailments, but he’d rarely seen her as intoxicated as she’d been the night before, and he’d been too distracted by his own predicaments to dwell on it.  
“From the day she was born,” the strongman started again, “Nicole has been insulted, provoked, and threatened with death. She has barely avoided being… assaulted, a dozen times, and was once captured by slave traders after a representation. When she cut one of the men’s throat and broke free, she was the one who had to face the gallows. It was only thanks to her father’s influence that she escaped the sentence, which was still commuted to ten lashes. It’s not as if she’d have much of a chance to live a peaceful life even if she dreamed of it.”  
Aramis knew about the slave traders and the flogging. Nicole had told him the story without flinching, the second day after they’d met. He also suspected that she had not avoided all the ‘assaults’. She was always more than eager to share her understanding of plants with girls who came to her in confidence, at night, after the representations, the men in the troupe turning a blind eye to these meetings. Besides, from his life in the brothel, Aramis knew the marks childbearing left on a woman’s body, especially very young ones, and he believed the reserved Juste Jules had recognized them as well. That was the one thing Nicole had not confided to him. After all that he’d confessed to her about his own past, he would have resented this dissimulation if not for the dullness in her eyes, every time he mentioned his lost baby. That look was worth any voiced confidence. They’d spent hours in silence, back then, dropping their constant banter to hold each other’s hand and just be there, week after week, month after month, as many times as they needed, until, one day, Aramis had felt like the subject didn’t hurt as much as it had.  
He’d always known more of Nicole’s past than she’d put into words, and was painfully aware that you didn’t crave action that much if you weren’t running from something. But this...  
He had to say it to believe it:  
“You mean she seeks danger only because she thinks it would find her anyway?”  
“Not ‘only’, Juste Jules amended. “But yes. Yes,” he insisted, she does. “  
“That’s… I’m sorry, Juste Jules, but that seems awfully stupid.”  
If the strongman was offended, he didn’t show it. Instead, he smiled:  
“Well, I keep forgetting you see no differences in all God’s children.”  
“Of course I see them! I just don’t get why you should act upon them.”  
“Well, that’s what makes you so special.”  
For a second, Aramis wondered if he was being mocked or praised. There’d been some acerbity in Juste Jule’s voice, but it didn’t seem directed at him.  
“Why?” he merely asked. “Because I’m not an imbecile?”  
“You know... They say I’m the friendly and trusting one, but you can be awfully naive sometimes.”  
“That I’m certainly not.”  
“So you think. But you keep hoping everyone could... see the light if they just try enough. People are mean, Aramis. They _choose_ to do harm, either from cowardice or basic selfishness. You’re giving them too much credit calling them imbeciles. And I find it admirable that you don’t discriminate, but that’s a luxury you have. If Nicole did the same, if she waited to learn all about about the next stranger before assuming that he’s a threat, she might end up dead.”  
“That’s no reason for rushing blindly into danger.”  
“I guess not, but it is one to choose to live your life to the fullest, and not worry about tomorrow. And that explains why she’s so concerned that I, who she believes could work my way into the world and, with some strategy and measure, make all my dreams come true, keep putting myself in harm’s way.”  
Aramis didn’t answer. He’d always assumed that Nicole merely thrived on danger, just as he did. That was partly why he loved her so much. Not once in his existence had he met anyone who was both so similar to him and so honest regarding their rare disagreements. But she’d never told him how she felt about Juste Jules’ own recklessness, nor had she mentioned that she had the same reasons to be equally disapproving of his.  
Somehow, it hurt.  
Enough to redirect the subject on his friend.  
“Do you think she’s right?”  
“Mmm?”  
“Do you think that, since your difference doesn’t show, it’s simply up to you to fulfill all your dreams?”  
“Well, that sounds pretty judgmental, put like that.”  
”Isn’t it like that, though?”  
And Nicole had never been one to lecture but, again, she’d never been one to keep things from him, so...  
“Why are you telling me all this, Juste Jules? Did she ask you to?”  
The strongman grinned.  
“As if she needed anyone to speak her mind!” he quipped, yet Aramis could see the unease in his eyes. “No, she did talk to me about her feelings, but I’m my own man, Monsieur d’Herblay.”  
“Don’t call me that.” Aramis grumbled, but when his friend opened his mouth to offer some light-hearted retort, he didn’t let him change the subject: “What do you mean, her feelings?”  
Juste Jules sighed:  
“You really can be quite dense when it suits you, you know?”  
“Nicole doesn’t... “ Aramis wanted to insist, then stopped, feeling ridiculous just saying the thing out loud. The morning before, Juliette had more than hinted that Nicole was jealous of his attentions for other women, but he’d dismissed the teasing as part of her never-ending badinage.  
“Nicole is like a sister to me,” he finally declared. “She’s family, as you all are.”  
Juste Jules smiled.  
“We wouldn't dream of ruining that, for sure.”  
Saying this, the strongman kicked his horse forward, and for an instant, Aramis couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been still talking about Nicole.

xxxx

Juste Jules remained remarkably silent as they approach their camp. Valentin, well aware of de Cénon’s notorious mood swings, had insisted on choosing a secluded clearing, reasonably far from the main road. The same fear of the Vicomte’s wrath had impelled him to show no mercy for his three companions’ state after their excesses of the day before, and insist on escaping Tours before dawn. They’d traveled past noon, until they’d reached the vicinity of Isabelle’s uncle village. That had been as good place to stop as any, and Aramis had rapidly left to carry through the last stage of his fruitless quest. Now that he was back, he wondered why he couldn’t hear any of the familiar noises coming from his friends. Of course, Valentin would have advised them to keep it quiet, but he couldn’t make out any sound of voices, any clang of metal from Yves washing the dishes or Valentin preparing the carriage, not even the sound of the horses. He raised his head and met Juste Jules’ worried eyes.  
“I left them all here,” the strongman confirmed as they finally entered the clearing, sending a cold shiver down Aramis’ spine. “We ate and tended to the horses. I didn't immediately go after you. Valentin had even unrolled his pallet for a nap.”  
Aramis dismounted and took a look around as his friend spoke. The place was empty and he wished he’d listened more of Nicole’s attempts to teach him how read the subtle signs of people moving through fields and forests. Thanks to her, he could now recognize the tracks of most wild animals instead of only the ones he hunted, and knew how to identify the traces of an attack, but he had never studied enough to become a true woodsman. He remembered Bruneau’s words, a year ago, about his swordsmanship, and how the tradesman had assured him he could grow into a remarkable fighter if he took the time to train. In moments like this, the old compliment sounded very much close to veiled criticism. Like when Valentin encouraged him to really work and make the best of his mediocre acting skills. He knew he relied too much on his natural gifts, and focused his efforts at becoming a true master of the things he was already good at. Well, he’d done just fine so far, he decided, finally noticing some unnaturally curved branches.  
“This way,” he instructed, drawing his pistol, and Juste Jules followed him, his blade in hand.  
They didn’t have to move far to spot Nicole. She was standing her back against a tree, her wrists tied above her head, gagged and apparently alone. Juste Jules made a rush for her and Aramis had to put his whole forearm on his friend’s chest to stop him.  
“What are you doing?” the strongman growled.  
“Shush! It may be a trap.”  
Given that the young woman seemed unharmed, it took Juste Jules more willpower than it should have to calm down. They scanned the vicinity and couldn’t make out any hidden attacker. When Aramis finally settled on whistling his best robin red-breast impression, Nicole raised her head and blinked furiously in their direction, not giving any indication that she feared for them.  
“I guess it’s safe to rescue her, now,” the strongman grumbled, and Aramis bit his lip. He wouldn’t apologize for prolonging Nicole’s discomfort if it was to ensure all their safety. Juste Jules was already untying their friend when he joined them by the tree, hand still on his weapon. They didn’t have the time to ask about the others' fate before Nicole removed the gag and almost yelled:  
“De Cénon’s men! They took them!”  
“Étienne did that?” Juste Jules rephrased with more incredulity than Aramis had expected.  
“Not _your_ de Cénon,” Nicole amended, rubbing her shoulders. “His father!”  
“You must be kidding me!”  
She huffed:  
“It seems that your friend’s viciousness comes from somewhere.”  
“What does he want?” Aramis asked, a knotted feeling in his stomach.  
“You, actually. Well, you both. And all of us, I believe, but I think he was particularly interested in the man who outsmarted his son and the one who acted as his armed support,” she specified, her eyes moving from Juste Jules to Aramis.  
“Where are Valentin and Yves?” the former spoke impatiently.  
“That’s the point: I don’t know. He left me here, tasked with telling you about his… game. He was impressed, apparently, by our little show yesterday, but not so pleased with the consequences for his heir’s reputation. They’ll keep Valentin and Yves prisoner until sundown. They’ll kill them both if we don’t find them in time. If we do… Well, I'm not sure, but I think he wants a duel.”  
“Why would he kidnap our friends if he wants a duel?” Aramis asked. “And how do we know that he won’t shoot us on sight?”  
“We don’t, except that I wouldn't be surprised if he just liked the fun of the sport. He seemed honest enough, in his own, twisted way, but just in case, let’s _not_ just show up blinking like lambs to the slaughter, right? Do you have a weapon for me?”  
Aramis handed her his spare pistol, and Juste Jules raised his arms to the heavens:  
“How can you be so casual about all this?”  
Nicole gave her joints another rubbing before answering:  
“Well, believe it or not, I had plenty of time to calm down and come up with a plan while you were away.”  
“And what would this plan be?” Aramis enquired, trying to sound at least a bit sarcastic but his admiration for his friend’s bravery taking over.  
Nicole smiled:  
“They went north-east. There’s a river not far, I think they hope it will help cover their tracks. But I saw some rocks on our way in, and by the shape of them, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were caves inside. I would say they crossed the spring and rode up north, where they can hide and ambush us if we happened to find them. Which we will.”  
“How can you be so sure?”  
“I’m not, but we’ll know soon enough. That’s why I begged them to take me with them.”  
“You what now?”  
“First they wanted to leave Yves. I thought he would be safer with Valentin than tied up alone in the woods. And, since I assumed they would do pretty much exactly the opposite of what I seemed to want, I faked hysteria and begged them to take me with them. Turned out I was right, and here I am, rescuing you.”  
Aramis raised an eyebrow:  
“Rescuing _us_?  
Nicole smiled:  
“If you want to find my father and our youngest in time, you’re going to need a scout.”

xxxx

À suivre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made it to the length of a NaNo Novel! In a year instead of a month but still: yeah me! First time I write something that long in English!  
> This chapter was a bit wordy, I’m afraid. Maybe I could have balanced the whole thing better, but I needed this transition and felt like writing dialogue. Action incoming in the next chapter. Only two left to finish this second act, they are already written and in the hands of my beta.  
> Please, tell me what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

They were running.  
They were running faster than Aramis had ever run, so fast that he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. The sky was getting darker, the cover of the trees hiding most of it anyway, and the uneven ground made every step a gamble... They would never make it.  
At least, Nicole, Valentin and Yves were out of danger.  
For now.  
Maybe they would reach a village before the night.  
Maybe they would even find help, and then…  
Aramis eyed Juste Jules who was running slightly ahead of him.  
_Then what?_ _Even if we escape, nobody will believe us. And even if someone believes us, that won’t save him, after..._  
He tripped on a rock, and the strongman caught him just in time to prevent him from face planting into the muddy leaves. He barely hold back a cry when his injured biceps caused him a throbbing pain.  
“I’m sorry,” Juste Jules uttered between breaths, and Aramis rolled his eyes.  
“You saved my life. Can you please stop apologizing?”  
“We’re not safe yet. And you know what I meant.”  
Aramis leaned on his friend to get up and tested his arm. Blood was still pouring from the wound but it moved alright, considering.  
“Let’s not have this debate now,” he grumbled, tightening the piece of cloth that vainly attempted to stop the bleeding. “I think I can hear the dogs again.”  
“The horses won’t follow in this undergrowth.”  
“They may find another way. They know those woods and we don’t.”  
“Can’t change the fact that I’m glad Nicole got away.”  
“I hear you on this, my friend.”  
Juste Jules smiled, and this moment of semi levity allowed Aramis to gather his breath. He could feel that the strongman was berating himself for their situation, and for having… interrupted the duel. And, as much as he wished he didn't, Aramis couldn’t help but resent him for the latter. He may have been raised in a brothel and became an entertainer, he was still a gentleman, at heart if not in name, and, as such wasn’t entirely sure he treasured his life over his honor. However, he wouldn’t say that to Juste Jules. Especially not now, with their odds so…  
“You ready?” the strongman interrupted his thoughts. He nodded. “Let’s go then.”

So they ran again. Their minds blank except from the occasional looking back at how they ended up in this situation.

xxxx

Aramis had no idea how Nicole did it. She was guiding them through the woods, alert to signs only she could see. They’d tried to help, at first, and then to merely understand, but it was as of she could converse with the vegetation.  
“Here!” she said, pointing at nothing at all, and changed direction.  
They followed her through a blackberry bush, and past a muddy slope she efficiently stepped over, minding her long skirt.  
That was the other amusing thing with Nicole’s scouting talents: no matter the number of jewels or layers of fabric she wore, she remained perfectly silent and left no tracks of her passing behind her.  
There was a clearer path behind the shrubs, and the two men were finally able to notice a trail and signs of horse shoes.  
“They’re heading north,” Juste Jules stated, and Aramis added.  
“To the caves. It seems that you were right, Nicole.”  
“Did you have any doubts?” she teased, but he could see lines of worry on her smiling face. He raised his eyes and squinted to the skies, trying to make out the time of day through the leaves. But it was Juste Jules who hopefully voiced:  
“It’s not dusk yet.”  
Nicole nodded and, when Aramis touched her arm, buried her forehead in his shoulder. She stayed like this for just a moment, taking a breath, before straightening.  
“Let’s go,” she decreed. “We can’t waste any more time.”

They heard pistols being cocked before they reached the caves. Then barking, and Aramis knew that, this time, ruse alone would never save them. Their enemies were not drunk, lazy aristocrats, torn between the outrage of their intrusion and the wish to find as much fun as possible out in it. They were fighters, taking their orders from a proud and smart nobleman. A proud and wily nobleman, he mused as the old Vicomte stepped down the hill, who wore his deviousness on his face. He was tall and handsome, despite being in his mid fifties, with wavy white hair and beard, and fine leather hunting clothes that probably cost as much as the Valentin’s carriage and tack. Athletic, with a squared chin, he didn’t look much like his son, except for the blue eyes and wicked smile. He started clapping mid-hill and didn’t stop until he reached one of his men, who’d conveniently stepped out of the woods a second before, pistol in hand. Another appeared behind Aramis and his friends, completing the vicious choreography.  
“Well done,” the Vicomte whispered, yet his strong voice traveled all the way to his three young antagonists. “I’ll admit I’m surprised. I sincerely believed you were just a bunch of overweening amuseurs who would get lost in the forest and give me plenty of time to head home and have a nice glass of wine before they found the corpses of their loved ones.”  
Aramis shivered and heard Nicole gasp and Juste Jules take a step forward.  
“Stop where you are,” one of the men ordered, waving his weapon, and Aramis had to hiss:  
“Juste Jules, please!”  
“They’re still alive,” the Vicomte amended. “I told your lovely friend here we would wait for the night, and we de Cénon are men of our word.”  
“With all due respect, my Lord,” Aramis objected, his hand on Nicole’s arm, “Your son made us a similar promise, and yet here we are.”  
“Well,” the man shrugged unapologetically. “I can’t be held responsible for other people’s engagements, notwithstanding the fact that they are family. In spite of your… treacherous ways, my son said he wouldn’t go after you, and he kept his own word. I do hope that, should you survive this evening’s performance, you’ll be so kind as to remain honest in your telling of the tale.”  
“A performance?” Juste Jules scoffed. “It’s not a game.”  
“Oh but it is, young man. It is very much a game, thanks to my fair and playful nature, which gives you a chance to fight for your lives in lieu of having your death decided by a court of law very much concerned with my interests. So...” he carried on. “Who’s the sharpshooter?”  
He knew the answer already, his eyes on Aramis, who merely replied:  
“At your disposal, my Lord, if that’s your wish, but I would demand that you free my friends first.”  
“You insolent bastard!” one of de Cénon’s men growled, the second one barking:  
“You don’t make dem…”  
The Vicomte had only to raise a hand to make them shut up.  
“Please,” he said, with mock annoyance. “We are all gentlemen here. Well,” he amended with a glance at Juste Jules: “Most of us.”  
The strongman had too much on his mind to take offense:  
“Aramis doesn’t have anything to do with what happened with your son. I’m the only one responsible, and he just got caught in the middle trying to help me.”  
“But help you he did, didn’t he? He broke into my home, with the old man and this… woman,” the Vicomte added, eyeing Nicole who tensed with something that was not fear. If Aramis did nothing, one or the other of his friends would get themselves killed.  
“My Lord,” he said, interrupting the Juste Jules who was about to argue. “I never ran away from a duel and I do not plan to start today. I merely ask… _wish for_ a sign of good faith on your part. I cannot force you to release my companions, even if I were impudent enough to try. But we have weapons. And, pardon my insolence, but we know how to use them. Why risk a bloodbath if you can spare innocents and still get your revenge? We have nothing to lose, Vicomte. What about you?”  
Aramis heard someone moving behind him and, guessing that dodging the blow would start a fight, was ready to take it. But, again, a wave of hand from the Vicomte stopped any attempt at violence.  
“I’ll give you this, lad,” de Cénon stated. “You have guts. And you did find your companions in time, after all.” He drew his pistol before asking the fellow at his side: “André, do fetch the old man and the boy for me, please.”  
The man obliged, visibly unconvinced, and Aramis could feel his tension ease. Everything but the renewed barking was silent while André climbed up the hill and disappeared into a cave, then came back a couple of minutes later, Valentin and Yves before him. Three more men followed, with the dogs in leash. The wrists of both the Valentins were tied, and their youngest had a black eye, but they seemed otherwise unarmed. Juste Jules growled:  
“They hurt Yves.”  
“I advised him not to antagonize those who hold his life in their hands,” the Vicomte said. “But I see, now, where he acquired his manners.”  
Aramis ignored the jab:  
“Are you okay?”  
“We are,” Valentin reassured him. “Thanks for being here, Aramis, Juste Jules, and… I’m sorry.”  
“Touching,” de Cénon commented. “Now, shall we proceed? Mister Sharpshooter here has agreed to a duel if I let the rest of you go free. I have no objection, to be frank, so long as I don’t ever see you in my town again.”  
_My town,_ Aramis noted. There was a count in Tours, and dukes in Paris, related to the royal family who could have claimed ownership of the estate. Even crazy popinjays like the de Cénon would not show such bravado if they were not confident of their disproportionate influence.  
“No way!” Yves exclaimed. “We’re not leaving our friend _sh_!”  
“ _Sh_ ou will do a _sh_ you were told,” André laughed, and most of the other men followed. Aramis could almost hear Juste Jules’ teeth clenching. The boy, for his part, had heard well enough through his life not to be bothered by such petty needling.  
“How do we know you won’t kill u _sh_ anyway?” he asked, ignoring Valentin’s glare.  
“You would if you’d been raised by gentlemen,” the Vicomte sighed. “But your trust is no concern of mine. Your carriage is still where we left it. You will retrieve it and disappear. André, untie them.”  
André drew his knife and obeyed, deliberately nicking the boy’s hand in the process.  
‘You son of a…” Juste Jules shouted, and it took both Aramis and Nicole to hold him back this time.  
“Juste Jules, Nicole,” the young man ordered. “Go with them.”  
“I most certainly will not!” Nicole protested and, before the Vicomte could say anything on the matter, Aramis insisted:  
“It’s getting dark. They’ll need your help to find their way.”  
De Cénon raised a brow:  
“Oh. So that’s how you made it here so quickly. Another clever move. A pity we met in such unfortunate circumstances, I could have used a few quick-witted actors, instead of the boring debauchees my son keeps hiring behind my back.”  
Aramis looked Nicole in the eyes:  
“Have you ever seen me lose a duel?”  
“Don’t try to manipulate me out of this,” she snapped.  
“I wouldn’t dare.” He took her by the shoulders, this time, and put his forehead to hers. “Nicole, there’s nothing you could possibly do to help me on this. But you can get Valentin and Yves out of the forest before nightfall, safe from the brigands and the wolves.”  
“Wolves won’t attack a group of four people unless they’re starving,” she tried, and then, more desperate: “What if you win but you’re hurt?”  
_Then his men will finish me,_ Aramis though, but it was Juste Jules who answered:  
“In that case, I’ll take care of him.” Before anyone could argue, he insisted: “I stay,” and to the Vicomte: “My Lord, I am the offender here. I am shamed by my inability to offer you reparation myself, but I won’t leave my friend alone to right my wrongs. I’ll be his second. If it’s a duel, he’ll need one.”  
“So be it,” de Cénon declared, and Aramis couldn’t help but feel a chill of fear as to why he was being so lenient about the whole thing. “The three distractions will go, and we’ll proceed as gentlemen. Now you,” he pointed at Juste Jules, “drop your weapons, and the others will be off on their way.”  
Nicole looked like she was about to argue further but, as recklessly as she behaved at times, she was no fool. A glance at her father finished convincing her. Aramis released her, his hands lingering a bit more than necessary on her arms. Before he knew it, hers were on his cheeks and she planted a kiss on his lips.  
“We’ll be in Fondettes for the night,” she said. “Be there before noon.”

As the three Valentins exited the cleairing, Aramis watched André disarming Juste Jules. His second pistol had been taken from Nicole, and was now secured in the other man’s belt. For some reason, it annoyed him. Before leaving Herblay, he’d chosen his weapons with great care and, since then, spent hours maintaining them in pristine condition. Seeing one of his most precious possessions in the hands of some inbred aristocrat henchman disgusted him.  
“So,” he said, itching to get it over with. “Shall we begin?”  
A wave of his other pistol backed his words but, again, the Vicomte raised a brow.  
“And what do you think you are doing with that, young man?”  
Aramis held back a shiver.  
“I always duel with my own weapons, My Lord. Surely you will not deny me this precaution?”  
“I will not,” de Cénon confirmed benevolently. “But you are mistaken. As the offended party, the choice of weapons is mine. And I choose swords.”

xxxx

“They’re getting closer!” Juste Jules yelled, out of breath.  
Aramis almost tripped again and cursed.  
“How are they so quick? I can barely see my own feet!”  
“They have torches!”  
He stopped, and blinked against the dark. There were lights indeed, maybe thirty yards away, and from their height and the way they were moving…  
“And horses,” he muttered. “They’re still on horses. They know the roads, they are making us run in circles, and they’re hunting us down like animals!”  
“The darkness could work in our favour,” the strongman tried.  
“Against hounds? I don’t think so. And they’ll find us long before true nightfall anyway.”  
It seemed like hours ago that they’d untied Nicole, but it was as if time passed in slow motion.  
“The caves are our only chance,” Juste Jules stated.  
“Are you kidding? That’s the first place they’ll look!”  
“We can ambush them!  
“For God’s sake, Juste Jules! With two pistols?”  
Never before had Aramis seen his friend so willing to take charge, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, decide if this change was guilt- or panic-driven. There was no trace of hysteria in the strongman’s eyes, though. Fear, of course, but no confusion, and far less despair than Aramis guessed could be read on his own face. His arm throbbed. He wasn’t losing a lot of blood, but it was enough to weaken him and dull his judgment, especially after such a run. Maybe that was just it. Maybe Juste Jules simply wished to relieve him from the burden of thinking their way out of this mess. The problem was that the strongman, for all his qualities, had never been a strategist.  
Until today.  
“Aramis, do you trust me?”  
“With my life, Juste Jules. But…”  
“So follow me.”  
“They _will_ search the caves.”  
“I know. But I may have a plan. Please, for once, follow my lead. You know I won’t risk your skin in vain and I promise: I will get you through this.”  
A barki rang out very close by and Aramis was snapped out of his ruminations. He was shocked and exhausted, and it was very tempting to rely on someone else for once. At his nod, the strongman took his good arm and they were running again. He did his best to follow, and to ignore the lightheadedness that threatened to possess him. When they made it to the caves, not far from those where they’d parted with Valentin, Nicole and Yves, he almost fell to his knees.  
“Now what?” he asked his friend who was wandering near the edge of the small cliff.  
“Now come here.” With a worried look back in the direction of the upcoming torches, Aramis complied. “I want you to know something,” the strongman carried on when he reached him. “Whatever happens, it’s nobody’s fault but mine, you did all you could to help me and I’m mortified I’ve dragged you into this.”  
Aramis waved impatiently.  
“I know. Pep talk later. What’s your big plan?”  
“I’ll tell you but you'll have to cooperate with me.”  
Aramis raised a brow.  
“What do you need?”  
“Just a confirmation, for my own peace of mind.”  
“What?”  
Juste Jules smiled:  
“How well can you swim?”

xxxx

Aramis was a good swordsman. Much better, in fact, than many noble sons he’d trained with. He’d had excellent instructors, before and during his stay in Herblay. Some had criticized his lack of patience, but his agility, speed and, mostly, the accuracy of his aim, had been customarily praised.  
Sure, since his joining the Valentins, he had neglected his daily practice. But he _had_ sparred. With Juste Jules, Nicole and Yves, who needed the instruction, and, occasionally, against bandits or brawlers. Only once or twice had he felt really threatened, and, even knowing he’d relied on his reflexes and quick wits perhaps more than on his technical skills, he had survived with no more than scratches.  
So, he was good.  
But de Cénon was exceptional.  
De Cénon was a man blessed with a robust constitution, who’d been raised by a military family, and trained under the masters of the art. De Cénon had dueled, he’d been to war, and, for forty years, had come back from battlefields fair and fit, and ready to draw his sword again.  
De Cénon, he realized, barely parrying a lunge, was going to eat him alive.  
He held his ground, as best as he could, aware that if he didn’t, he would never regain it, and executed a series of compound attacks that briefly surprised his opponent. He knew that only a feint, ideally a vicious one, could save him, and wondered if he could take advantage of the ground. De Cénon was not as flexible and swift as a young man could be. When his boot slipped on the leaves, Aramis saw his chance and jumped into the opening.  
A second later, his arm was on fire.  
He moved back and parried almost blindly, only the automatisms acquired from years of practice protecting him from the next blow. Juste Jules yelled in fear and anger, de Cénon’s men in joy, and the dogs restarted their cacophony of barking before being beaten into silence by their owners.  
De Cénon was on him again before Aramis could blame himself for having fallen for such an invitation. He dodged, unable to lift his sword quick enough to riposte. His right hand was trembling and he shifted his weapon into the left just in time to block another attack. The Vicomte was giving him no respite. The man was too seasoned to let his arrogance get the better of him and wouldn’t give his opponent any chances. What felt a second later, Aramis was on the ground, on his back, the point of a blade under his chin.  
“Any last words?” de Cénon asked.  
And Aramis didn’t have time to open his mouth before the Vicomte’s head exploded.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then someone shouted: “Kill him!” and Aramis was on his feet.  
He wasn’t sure how he’d done it, but, next thing he knew, he was holding André hostage, his sword under the man’s throat and, careful to keep him between him and the furious men, yelled in turn: “Drop your weapons or he dies!”  
It was as blunt a move as it could get, because he could only guess at the value of André’s life. The man had seemed vaguely in charge, and, in any case, in his master’s close confidence, but it didn’t mean the others would bother to save him if that meant letting their prey escape. There was some confusion, that allowed Aramis to spot Juste Jules safely positioning himself behind him, his hands still shaking from having thrown the rock at the Vicomte’s head.  
“Drop your weapons!” he ordered again, and André growled:  
“Do as he says. We’ll find these cowards later and make them regret they were ever born!”  
As incongruous as it was coming from a fellow who’d kidnapped an old man and a boy to get back at the victims of his master’s son, the insult stung. Aramis knew Juste Jules had only acted out of friendship and fear for him, but he’d never wanted to win this way. For a second, he contemplated the idea of surrender. He would give his sword to André and face the consequences of his deeds, except…  
Except _his_ deeds had been honorable.  
He’d fought well, lost against a better opponent, and had been ready to meet his end until Juste Jules, who hadn’t been raised a nobleman and only cared for logic and what was fair and rational, to hell with etiquette, had saved him.  
If they didn’t flee, the strongman would be prosecuted. Not only for destroying the young vicomte’s reputation, but for murdering one of the most influential nobles in the region.  
He would be lucky if he was only hanged for this.  
The last of de Cénon’s men dropped his blade. Only the glares and the barking still threatened them. Aramis’ arm hurti like hell.  
“Hold him,” he told Juste Jules and, when his friend complied, he gathered his pistols and said:  
“Let’s go.”

They’d been walking for maybe twenty minutes, and had not even stopped when Aramis had tightened a piece of his shirt around his biceps. Only André’s occasional insult or voluntary stumble had given rhythm to their escape. Aramis eyed Juste Jules a couple of times and the strongman didn’t seem to acknowledge until he finally asked:  
“What?”  
And it was a genuine question.  
It was tense, a bit wary, but there was not an ounce of guilt in it.  
“Juste Jules…” Aramis voiced, incredulous. “You can’t…” And, since the his friend’s face remained impassible: ““What did you do? It was a fair fight.”  
Juste Jules was so startled that he released his grip on André for a second, and the man’s shoulder promptly slammed him in the jaw. He fell backwards and Aramis didn’t have the time to catch their hostage before he fled. He put his left hand on his pistol but didn’t close his fingers on the handle.  
“What are you waiting for?” Juste Jules yelled. “Shoot him!”  
Aramis breathed out heavily.  
“No need to waste a bullet, they’ll know our position soon enough.” He looked directly at his friend and added: “Now we run.”

xxxx

“How well can you swim?”  
“I… very well,” Aramis answered. “As you kn… oh no. We won’t…”  
But Juste Jules had already seized his shoulders. He smiled, no trace of fear in his eyes anymore. The barking was stronger and the light of the torches flickered very nearby in the background.  
“I wish you all the happiness in the world,” the strongman said. “It was a privilege to be your friend. And I’m sorry, and I'm telling you this without sarcasm, that I deprived you of your honorable death, but I don’t regret it and, well… I love you.”  
Aramis only had the time to utter: “What?” before he was pushed off the cliff.

xxxx

À suivre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of historical accuracy, know that there was actually no Comte in Tours at the time. After having been a duchy, Touraine (the region which Tours is the Capital) was merely an old province of the kingdom of France. It was still nicknamed “The Garden of France”, because the kings used to take residence there when they had enough of Paris.


	13. Chapter 13

_ My Dear son, _

_ It is with great pleasure that I received your letter, and news of your well-being. _

_ You did well to give my name to Monsieur de Neufchâtel, and I have no doubt that my old comrade will provide you and your friends with any thing you might need in these dire times. _

_ Life in Herblay has changed much since you left. Phébus has begun to administrate the domain by my side. His agitated and rebellious nature does not always abide well with what is required of a noble family’s first-born son but, with the help of his sister, he endeavours to satisfy the claims of his rank. Charles has taken a position as a tutor for the d’Andrésy’s son, and considers entering the seminary. I have little doubt that his gentle and forgiving disposition would work wonders with the poor and indigent, although Marie is concerned that his abilities would be put to better use in upkeeping the estate and perpetuating the d’Herblay’s reputation once she leaves to marry the young Jacques de Maurepas, who has graced her with his proposal. _

_ Please send my kind regards to my dear friend Monsieur le Comte de Neufchâtel, and know that, as long as I live, your place at Herblay will be secure, should you wish to reclaim it. _

_ Your loving father, _

__ Henri, Pierre Sauguis de Rague, chevalier d’Herblay.  
_ April 12, 1620.  
_ __ Herblay.

Aramis put the letter on the small mahogany desk, and shivered despite the fire burning in his room of the Châtel-sur-Moselle castle. The de Neufchâtel had money and, as charitable as they were, they liked to show it. It had been a subject of playful jesting when they had first settled here, how the old military family tried to make a pretty house of a war fortress.  
They had much needed something to joke about at the time, and still did, but Aramis was tiring of forcing whimsical words to his lips and charming smiles on his face.  
He was not such a bad actor after all. As Valentin had always repeated, it was only a matter of finding justifications for the act.  
He hated himself for his melancholy. Nicole had known Jute Jules for years, Valentin considered the strongman a son, and Yves possibly a father.  
This being acknowledged, he mused. Nicole, Valentin and Yves hadn’t emerged from frozen water to helplessly watch their friend be shot multiple times. Nicole, Valentin and Yves hadn’t struggled against the currents with a bleeding arm, then waited a whole night semi-immersed for the dogs to leave and the sun to rise, to climb back up a slippery cliff and retrieve the body.  
Nicole, Valentin and Yves had not woken up every night that had followed from fevered dreams, battling a mild infection while reliving the tragedy every time they closed their eyes.  
And Nicole, Valentin and Yves had not been the reason why the strongman had died in the first place.  
Nicole hated when he talked like that. “You saved our lives!” she would say. “You’re not expected to best everyone with every weapon. Besides, if de Cénon had wanted a fair fight, he would have provoked you to a duel from the start. He kidnapped my father and Yves because he believed we wouldn’t be able to track them, and planned to kill us once we’d found their corpses. When that didn’t work, he came up with this duel idea so that his honor would be safe. You accepted, you risked your life to make amends for a crime you didn’t commit, you fought well, and there was nothing more you could have done.”  
Aramis guessed he would never know about de Cénon’s initial plan, but he had to disagree with the last part.  
There had been more he could have done. He could have been humble. He could have not assumed that his courage and the purity of his intentions were enough to make him the Valentins’ protector. He could have not let the praise for his shooting abilities render him blind to his weaknesses. He could have boasted less and trained more.  
And Nicole, Valentin and Yves might have needed some humor in their lives to grieve, but, even six weeks and three hundred miles later, he didn’t feel like laughing. Not when the best man he’d ever met had died because he hadn’t been strong enough to save him.  
He glanced at the letter again, reminiscing his father’s last words without reading them.  
__ Your place at Herblay will be secured, should you wish to reclaim it.  
_ “I believe Father wants to make you his heir,”  _ Marie had said, back when he’d fled the d’Herblay estate. And now, she feared what would happen after she left herself. There was no doubt that Phébus, if he didn’t change -  _ and he hasn’t, and won’t _ \- would be a disastrous  _ chevalier _ . He would neglect his duties, abuse his people and maybe finish ruining their already fragile domain.  
Was it Aramis’ responsibility to prevent such a fate?  
He didn’t want to inherit the d’Herblay estate, let alone the title. But should he?  
_ It’s not my fault Father raised a spoiled brat!  _ he mentally protested.  
__ He wasn’t there for the first twelve years of my life, he left mamá with nothing, then took me away from her. She died because of him and he didn’t even give us a chance to say goodbye. And he didn’t even mention this alleged inheritance directly to me!  
__ Marie might have imagined things, for all I know.  
A knock at the door snapped him out of his ruminations.  
“You all right?” Nicole asked, after he invited her in.  
“Fine,” he merely answered, and then, not wanting to give her the chance to dwell on his mental state: “My father wrote to Monsieur de Neufchâtel. I think that will secure your place at his side.”  
“I had few doubts but that will be a relief for Valentin. I fear he hasn’t become more confident with age.”  
“Or with noblemen who keep betraying him,” Aramis retorted, but she ignored the jab:  
“If someone had told me that I’d turn from a street actress in France to a private entertainer in Lorraine…”  
“Do you mind the change?”  
“No, actually. I think I could do with some peace in my life. Besides, a long-term engagement doesn’t mean I should renounce every call for adventure. There are forests to explore, taverns to sing in, poor children to feed and teach to read, and, I’m sure,” she added with a wink, “plenty of abandoned buildings to climb.”  
“Last time didn’t work out so well,” Aramis smiled.  
Nicole made a semi-apologetic face and retorted:  
“For you. But you saved me, my knight without armor.”  
Aramis softly laughed, but wouldn’t let her drag him again into one of those conversations.  
“Anyway,” he said. “I’m happy for you. Valentin deserves this position.”  
“He surely does. He’s just sorry you had to pull out your father’s name for it.”  
Aramis shrugged:  
“I’d planned to write to him for a while. We didn’t part in such bad terms. We didn’t part period, actually. From his perspective, I probably ran away, and it was more than past due to tell him I was alive. I won’t pretend I liked coming back to him asking for a favor, but keeping you all safe from de Cénon’s wrath was the best reason I could think of for doing so.”  
Nicole smiled sadly.  
“You say ‘you’. ‘You all’. But you’re still one of us, Aramis.”  
“Most of my acts were with Juste Jules.”  
Her eyebrows rose and Aramis himself wondered why he’d said that.  
_ So much for not broaching the subject, _ he mused, as she argued:  
“So what? You can’t seriously believe we would cut you out because of his passing.”  
_ No,  _ he thought.  __ I don’t.  
__ But that would make things so much easier.  
“We have a rehearsal for tonight’s act,” she said. “Come with me, we’ll find you a part.”  
“I can’t. Monsieur de Neufchâtel’s instructor is waiting for my sparring lesson.”  
“You don’t need…” she started, and seemed to think better of it. Her eyes went darker, though, before she snapped: “That won’t bring him back.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
Her face was showing more anger than compassion, now.  
“I won’t tell you  __ again  that nothing was your fault,” she articulated, stressing the adverb. “But what you’re doing now, shutting yourself away and throwing yourself headlong into your training, won’t magically make up for what you believe you lacked, and, most of all, won’t bring Juste Jules back. So you might as well...”  
Aramis was on his feet before he meant to.  
“Thank you so much, Nicole,” he cut her. “I would never have figured it out.”  
He turned on his heels and left the room, wondering vaguely if what he’d do if she apologized.  
She didn’t.

xxxx

__ Beat, counter-beat, advance-lunge...  
Until the last moment, he kept hope.  
__ Disengage.  
He heard the gunshots. Lost count after the sixth.  
__ Riposte.  
From the river, he saw his friend fall, or at least stumble and disappear behind the edge of the cliff.  
__ Dodge!  
Then he waited, and he prayed.  
__ Appel.  
He prayed like he’d never prayed in his entire life that Juste Jules would survive. He knew there was no chance after the second or third shot, knew that he even if by miracle he hadn't received any immediately fatal injury, he would have bled to death in the end, but he prayed so long and so hard that he started believing in the possibility.  
__ Lunge.  
Apparently, sometimes, faith wasn’t enough.  
__ Parry and...  
Juste Jule’s chest was a bloody mess, but his face remained as peaceful in death as it had been when he was alive. Clear of even a trace of pain, as if he hadn’t needed anything more than the certainty that his last action had saved his friend.  
__ Careful!  
The blade missed his chin by an inch, and he counter-timed without thinking, forcing his opponent to step back.  
__ “I love you.”  
“Nice move!”  
He blinked and smiled at the old master.  
“That was merely a reflex.”  
“A requirement for any self-respecting swordsman.”  
“But not something I can solely rely on. You would have ended me ages ago in a real fight.”  
The man wiped the sweat that his large grey eyebrows failed to contain.  
“Maybe, “ he breathed. “Assuming my heart had held up. But I spent my life working on my swordsmanship, Aramis. My job is to be better than you are, and I honestly don’t believe you’ll meet many opponents who would pose a serious threat to you.”  
“But it only takes one, doesn’t it?”  
The old master sighed gently, and Aramis feared another sermon. These past days, everyone had seemed to come together to keep him off his brooding and, as well-intentioned as it was, he was really getting sick of it.  
“Shall we start again?” he invited, nipping any retort in the bud.  
The man groaned, this time, and stretched his back. His worry was easier to deflect than Nicole’s.  
“We shall, lad. We shall.”  
Evening found Aramis in a tepid bath, sponging off the dirt of the prolonged training, and reminiscing about Juste Jules.  
__ “I love you.”  
He had never known.  
A year with the Valentins, sharing their meals, they joys and fears, and sometimes  the same single lumpy bedbug-infested pallet at an inn , and he’d never guessed Juste Jules’ feelings. No more than he’d guessed Nicole’s.  
He should have been flattered. Juste Jules was smart, brave and righteous, and the kindest soul he could he’d met. Merely being considered a close friend by such a man was an honor.  
But they were supposed to be a family.  
The first real one he ever had.  
Being a family was the reason he’d stayed with the Valentins so long. The reason he’d kept appearing on stage despite not being either good at or truly interested in the art of acting.  
The reason he had not questioned his future as long as he’d been with them.  
He felt his eyes sting, and knew it had nothing to do with the soap, but no tear fell.  
None ever did.  
He’d never cried since his baby’s death.  
He’d been an emotional child. Affectionate, accommodating and not scared of many things, but very easy to move. He’d smashed walls when frustrated, yelled at customers who didn’t respect his mother, fought those who spoke ill of her, and cried, yes, cried over hurt friends, touching music or well-delivered homilies.  
But he hadn’t when he’d lost Isabelle, hadn’t after his first kill or any of those that had followed, hadn’t when he’d believed Yves would die of a nasty fever, hadn’t when Juste Jules...  
__ What’s wrong with me?  
He didn’t cry now.  
He was empty.  
Empty and alone, with no idea what to do with his life except training, and training again to become a better swordsman, which would right no wrong indeed but would fill his otherwise desolate existence.  
He sank under the water and stayed there, enjoying the numbness that ensued. It was good to hear and see everything in a blur, his lungs progressively shrinking until it hurt and he felt something at last.

xxxx

Another week passed until Aramis finally took part in one of the rehearsals, and it was only on the express request of Monsieur de Neufchâtel. The Comte had voiced his wish in a most polite manner, allowing his friend’s son the possibility to refuse, but Aramis didn’t feel like disappointing the man who’d offered shelter and long-term employment to his companions. Valentin had arranged for him an impressive yet small role: he was to appear during the last act, shooting his hat off again, then several bottles, with the four pistols he carried in his belt.  
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Aramis had pointed out, a bit amused in spite of himself.  
“It doesn’t have to. It’s just a silly farce, with plenty of action, for the Comte to show off in front of his friends. Nicole will sing, Yves will juggle, and we could add a sword fight? What do you think?.”  
When the last bottle exploded, the public cheered and even the old and pompous Baronne de Vincey stood up to applaud, Aramis was glad he’d said yes.  
It wasn’t going to last, though, he mused, bowing to the crowd, Nicole’s hand in his right, Yve’s in his left. It wasn’t going to last but it brought good moments so long as it did.  
“Encore!” yelled a young man he’d not been introduced to. Blond, delicate, barely of age, cordial enough but quite haughty... Probably one of Monsieur de Neufchâtel numerous cousins. Not minding what passed for a story in this chaotic play, Aramis waved at him and, when he caught his attention:  
“Your pistol, Monsieur,” he requested. “If you please.”  
The lad blushed and repressed a giggle, to the amusement of his friends, but, with some encouragement, obliged. Aramis bent down on the small stage to grab the offered weapon, and took his time inspecting it.  
“Good weapon, Monsieur,” he decided. “Light, well balanced… can I compliment you on the… pristine condition?” He brushed the handle with his finger. “This fine leather almost looks like it has never been used.”  
The public laughed, the young man a bit anxiously, and Yves yelled: “He’ _th z_ ust elegant, Arami _sh_! You _th_ ouldn’t make fun of him: you ha _th_ flower _shs_ engraved on your _ths_!”  
Aramis coughed in mocked embarrassment, then:  
“Are you a good shot, Monsieur?”  
“Well,” the lad started nervously, then raised his chin. “It is not a skill I had to perfect to make a _living_ , of course, but… Good enough.”  
The laugher was edged this time. Aramis ignored the offensive innuendo, smiled and waved at the stage, where Nicole had already put another bottle on display: “Would you care to demonstrate?”  
Encouraged by the proximity of the target, the young man took Aramis’ offered hand and jumped on the scene. Most of the noble spectators cheered, with various degrees of whole-heartedness. He cautiously loaded his weapon but, as soon as he took aim, Aramis seized the scarf he’d worn during the play and, in an elegant, gesture, made it fly above his new partner's head and land over his eyes. The lad stuttered:  
“What? I… I can’t…” but his protests were drowned out by the chuckles and comments. Aramis whispered in his ear: “Trust me, my Lord,” and put a hand on his shoulder before addressing the audience: “You may laugh, ladies and gentlemen, but it takes an expert to recognize another, and I can feel that this young man is full of promise. Or maybe he is a master already? I will ask you to be very quiet, out of respect for my vict… my friend’s,” he amended over the snickers, “concentration. Monsieur, whenever you’re ready!”  
The lad exhaled but, to everyone’s surprise, aimed at the bottle again. His position was close to the one he’d had a moment before, yet visibly off. Aramis talked in his ear once more: “Recall the first time you aimed, Monsieur. Let your body remember. Excellent. Relax your shoulders if you please. Perfect. Now breathe normally. That’s it...” He kept up his words of comfort, quite impressed by the lad’s focus. Maybe his confidence hadn’t been entirely baseless, after all. When he believed the weapon and the target sufficiently aligned, he turned to the public anew and whispered: “Now…” then shouted : “Fire!” and rested his hand on his swords’ pommel.  
The young man pressed the trigger.  
The tip of Aramis’ blade moved up.  
And touched an elbow.  
The barrel shifted.  
The gun went off.  
The bottle exploded.  
The audience cheered with an unrestrained gusto such as Aramis would never have ascribed to such a poncy gathering.  
When the lad removed the scarf and smiled broadly, he exclaimed:  
“Impressive, Monsieur. It seems that I have met my maestro.”  
It was almost midnight, but the Comte’s party was still in full swing, when Aramis found Nicole. She was nursing a glass of wine, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the castle’s well, slowly rocking back and forth. Aramis winced.  
“You have to make the simplest things dangerous, haven’t you?” he joked, but froze when she raised her chin and he met her eyes.  
Nicole was crying.  
It was such a rarity that, for a couple of seconds, he didn’t know what to do.  
“What happened?” he finally asked, and moved to settle by her side.  
“I miss Juste Jules,” she answered quietly, a sad smile on her lips, then, her voice breaking: “I miss him terribly.”  
He took her in his arms and she dropped her class which shattered on the floor to bury her face against his chest and sob.  
He stayed there, gently stroking her back, his chin on her head and his mind racing. All those weeks, Nicole had kept her misery to herself. When he’d retrieved Juste Jule’s body and all but collapsed entering the village, she’d barely let out a gasp. And then, Yves had been so shocked he hadn’t spoken for three days; Valentin had taken the strongman’s death as a personal failure; and Aramis himself was hurt and had felt so guilty of she-didn’t-know-what yet she had to be there for him anyway. She’d taken care of everyone and almost everything, from lying shamelessly to the villagers in swearing that nobody was coming for them, to buying the supplies they needed to flee as soon as they could, and even choosing the place of the grave. It was on the top of a small hill, facing fields criss-crossed by the roads the strongman had so loved to travel on. She’d wept a little when Aramis had said a prayer in front of the modest wooden cross but, all along, had kept a supportive hand on his shoulder.  
He should have talked to her before. Maybe she would have blown him off, but at least, she would have known she was not alone.  
“I’ve been a bad friend,” he muttered, when she’d composed herself a bit. She raised surprised brows and he clarified: “For weeks, you’ve tried to help me come to terms with losing him, and get out of my guilt, and not only didn’t I thank you once, but I didn’t even pretend to be there for you when you needed me.”  
“Well,” she sniffed. “I wasn’t the one who saw Juste Jules being murdered and then carried his dead body through the woods with a bleeding arm. And it’s not like I have a habit of asking for help.”  
“But I should have known! You’re my best friend!”  
Her eyes glazed over, and Aramis wondered why, after being blessed with such charm and diplomacy, he now seemed only capable of making this worse each time he attempted to be nice. Silence settled for a while, not as uneasy as he’d feared. His relationship with Nicole was too strong to be threatened by such tactlessness. Yet, when she finally spoke, her blunt question hit him hard:  
“Why don’t you love me, Aramis?”  
There was no bitterness in her voice, let alone despair. She just wondered, apparently, and probably had for months, and, as much as he could give any answer, she needed to hear one.  
“I do love you, Nicole,” he stressed. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved any girl I’ve bedded, and you know I did love and respect all of them.”  
“But I’m your big sister, right.”  
“I…” he started, but held his tongue. There’d been bitterness, this time. Maybe even a fair trace of irony, yet he couldn’t find in himself to care. Perhaps it _was_ ironic, after all. The romantic noble son, set off in a vain quest of love, intruding into an established family despite having nothing to give them. He grinned and saw that she struggled to interpret it. He sighed: “You’re not my sister. I just really needed one.”  
There was a long pause again. His eyes were on a lighted window above, the dimmed music from the room piercing through the silent night, when he felt her hand on his cheek. He turned to face her. She was so close her lips almost touched his chin. She raised her head.  
“Nicole…”  
“Shush,” she breathed, and kissed him lightly. “Don’t worry. I know.”  
When he didn’t move away, she kissed him again, more firmly, then with the passion she usually deployed in her acting or her fighting.  
When they tongues met, he put her in his arms and carried her in the shadows of the castle, feeling her strength, her gentleness, her desire to give pleasure and have it, in his whole body, and wondering…  
Wondering in turn.  
 __Why don’t I love you, Nicole?  
They made love there, against the wall. It was brief, sad and angry, yet he could count it as some of the best sex he ever had. She came just before he did, and he he shakily spilled his seed safely on the ground, as he did most of the time when he bedded young women. He kissed her neck and she held him tight for a few seconds before pulling down her skirt. As he finished getting dressed again, she brushed his cheek once more and left.  
He walked into the fortress, climbed the austere stair that led to the bare courtyard that had been converted into a ‘ballroom’, and spotted the Comte among his guests. He waited for their conversation to be over and headed toward his benefactor.  
“My Lord, would you grant me a few seconds of your time?”

xxxx

The next day, at dawn, Aramis left Châtel-sur-Moselle.  
“I’ll write them a letter,” he’d said to Monsieur de Neufchâtel after he’d thanked him profusely for his generosity. “But…”  
“I will tell them,” the Comte had interrupted. “I have no doubt they will understand, eventually. Godspeed, lad. And please, send my regards to your father.”

xxxx

À suivre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends my second (rather sad, but less than what I had initially planned) act. The third and last one should have Aramis meet some of the other characters. It’s been a bit difficult for me to pursue my writing of this fic this year, mostly because my job already implies a lot of writing, and I didn’t feel like spending all my spare time in front of a computer. But I’m halfway threw the last part, so you shouldn’t have to wait much to see the end of this story. Don’t worry if some Avengers/Thor fics pop up in the meantime: I AM working on this one :)
> 
> Châtel-sur-Moselle was a strongfort of Lorraine, that was indeed property of a Neufchâtel family at the time. The castle was destroyed and buried in 1670 by Louis XIV, in a rather petty way, before being discovered again in the twentieth century. But I guess in this show’s universe it won’t happen. Our Dauphin won’t grow petty, will he?
> 
> A HUGE thanks to everyone who keep following and reviewing this story.


	14. Chapter 14

Aramis crawled up the hill and mentally swore when another bramble caught his leg. He tried and failed to shake it off, and resolved to carry on, wincing when he heard the fabric ripping.  
Again.

Between that and his wretched boots, he would be in rags before the end of the siege. Unfortunately, so close to the fortress’ walls, he couldn’t even raise his head too high, let alone put down his rifle to sit and remove the thorns from his pants.  
He made it to the top and shivered when a sudden breeze made him aware of his damp body. He took pride in having been trusted to become a sharpshooter just two months after enlisting in the infantry, but the position, as comfortable as it might be compared to his weeks in the trenches, was far more tolerable in the summer. He repressed a sigh and prepared himself to wait.  
That was his favourite part.  
His father, aware of his usual… shiftlessness, and being a very good horseman, had tried to instil in him his love of stag hunting. The chase, the wind in the hair, avoiding the branches and feeling the mount heaving beneath your legs, the smell of its sweat filling your nostrils... And the horns, the barking, the yelling of your comrades by your side… Such were some of the few things the chevalier d’Herblay had wished to share with his son. Yet Aramis, as always, had disappointed him. Yes, he liked the excitement, but resented harassing the game to exhaustion, asking so much of his mare, and, even if he would never have admitted it to anyone, didn’t care for killing for fun. That was an unusual seeming of delicacy, for a nobleman, especially one who sought out fights and laughed in his opponents’ faces as he met their fists or blocked their blades, to show respect for a mere animal. But he hunted for food and, as much as he couldn’t deny the thrill of lodging a bullet in a deer’s head after hours of waiting, those hours made him feel like he’d deserved the meat. It was a game, yes, but a game of wits, instincts and patience, between the beast and himself, on the prey’s ground and on its terms. The waiting _was_ the game, and it gave the brash and restless young man a rare sense of serenity.  
And it was the same on a battlefield.  
Especially when hunting an enemy who had shot dead dozens of his brothers-in-arms over the past four days.  
Aramis glanced at the vast space between the barricades and the high impenetrable walls, empty save from some lost cannonballs, discarded carts, and small trees they would have burned down already to complicate the Huguenots’ sorties if they didn’t equally protect their own assaults. A shrilling sound was blown and he knew Gautier and his men had made it to their position. He whistled in turn and took aim.  
He knew where the sharpshooter would appear.  
He knew it because he would have chosen the same spot.  
He couldn’t see Gautier from where he lay on the ground, but, from his vantage point in the fortress, the other man would.  
And his job was to take him out before he hit too many of them.  
“I won’t let a single one get killed,” he’d sworn, and Lieutenant Brison had sneered.  
“No need to brag, lad,” he’d said. “You already got your promotion. Just shoot the bastard.”  
Lieutenant Brison was a jealous shit who didn’t give a rat’s ass about how many soldiers his orders would have massacred so long as they were obeyed. He would sacrifice young recruits, send scouts get the lay of enemy-infested land, and had turned a blind eye when his men had burnt to the ground the villages they’d captured before beginning the siege. That supplied Aramis with a reason, as if he needed one, to make sure neither Gautier nor any of the others got hurt.  
He held a breath when the sharpshooter appeared on the wall and adjusted his aim.  
He was so young.  
Skinny. Fair skin. Dark blond hair tied back at the nape. Maybe seventeen years old? Aramis ventured, barely realizing that made him not much younger than he was.  
But he didn’t feel young anymore. You didn’t call yourself boy when you had as much blood as he had on his hands.  
How many people had the lad killed himself? Was he one of those fanatics who’d left the city two days ago to slaughter an entire Catholic troop in their sleep? Or simply the son of one of those farmers whose homes they’d destroyed?  
Aramis hadn’t participated in most of those raids, and could claim that, when he had, didn’t take a single life that wasn’t directly threatening his. But that was not something to brag about.  
So what if he hadn't killed any women or children? So what if he’d held enemies prisoner rather than shooting them? So what if he had not plundered villages, ransacked houses or raped girls? He’d defended himself when attacked, slain military men and farmers alike in the process, and he knew that there wasn’t much he could do about it because civil wars were the worst kind of wars.  
And this was a civil war against _Montauban_ , a city that, in its centuries of existence, had never fallen.  
Twenty-five thousand royal soldiers against six thousand besieged citizens and, once again, not only was the second group holding on tight, but their canons and their audacious sorties were taking a serious toll on the Catholic troops.  
Also, they had faith.  
For the montébannais, anything was a sign from God: a rainbow after a failed Catholic assault, a woman defender killing three assailants, two cannonballs hitting each other in mid-air...  
Aramis had faith also, even though it was not the reason why he'd enlisted in this conflict. His faith had never been bellicose, nor had he felt his beliefs threatened by those of others. But Montauban’s influence in the region went far beyond the religious persuasion. It endangered both the young King’s weak attempts at being worthy of his father’s illustrious reputation, and his will to detach himself from the authority of his ambitious mother. Many of Aramis’ fellow soldiers weren’t especially devout. They were last sons of small nobility, peasants ready to jump at any hope of a regular income, or even criminals. Some dreamt of glory. Others, like him, were bastards with few prospects, running away from either their past or their future. A few of them were English Catholics fleeing King James’ persecutions. Almost all despised the Protestant’s fanaticism, never once wondering if they might have been the source of it. But they all fought, above all, for the sovereignty of France, and, famine after famine, plague after plague, unsuccessful assault after unsuccessful assault, that made Aramis curious...  
Would God favor his most dedicated children?  
In the end, would it all come down to whose faith was the strongest?

On the wall, the lad exchanged a few words with a man Aramis had seen before. And definitely heard. He was one of those sermonizers whose loud exhortations never failed to heighten the montébanais’ spirits and undermine theirs.  
He briefly wondered if he could take him out too.  
It seemed to him that this man had already caused more deaths than the boy.  
But he’d neglected enough orders already. Perfect shooting record or not, Lieutenant Brison would have his skin for such open insubordination.  
Gautier must have advanced because, all of a sudden, and to the preacher’s surprise,the lad was in position.  
Aramis moved alike.  
It was not easy, from down there, with the crenellations partly blocking his view, but he’d chosen his post with care.  
Just as Lieutenant Brison had chosen Gautier and his men’s path, not minding how many of them would be slaughtered, but assured that their progression would hold the montébannais sharpshooter’s attention long enough for Aramis to operate.  
An arsehole indeed, but a fine strategist.  
 _I won’t let a single one get killed._  
He aimed. Just above the barrel that protruded from the crenellation.  
Gautier pursued his advance. Aramis couldn’t hear him but he knew.  
The lad moved forward slightly, as he knew he would.  
He fired.  
The lad fell.  
In the distance, Aramis could make out Gautier and the others' screams of joy.  
He crawled back, surrounded by the sound of the enemy’s shots, but most of the bullets got lost in the branches.  
Only autumn leaves touched his body, because he’d killed the only man who could have spotted him under their cover.

xxxx

“So. None of them were killed, after all.”  
Aramis raised his head from his cup, and his comrade’s voices faltered. Lieutenant Brison was stepping into their little campfire circle, his thin face made even harder by the firelight. Gautier tensed and smoothed his large blond moustache to conceal his nervosity, but Aramis managed to appear unimpressed:  
“Like I said,” he answered nonchalantly.  
Brison snorted:  
“You’re a plague-kissed overpuffed brat, you know that?”  
Despite the bitterness in his words, the Lieutenant was more cordial than Aramis had ever seen him be. He was back from headquarters, having just been congratulated for another daring and successful plan, but it was not the first time, and never once before had he shown the slightest gratitude to the pawns whose existences he’d put at risk. Aramis had no idea what motivated this change of behavior, yet he would not be the one to ask.  
“I will do my best and try to continue to live up to my pomposity, Sir,” he answered, and had the satisfaction of witnessing a jaw tighten and fists clench.  
Brison had no real self-control.  
“The Duc de Luynes was here earlier. He was curious about who managed to take out the bastard.”  
 _Oh, so you had no choice but to give him my name,_ Aramis mused. _That explains it.  
_ The Duc de Luynes was one of the young king’s most trusted advisors, and the man who, from their headquarters at the castle of Piquecos, some seven and a half miles north of Montauban, was the true brains behind the Catholic’s strategy.  
“He had to go back to Piquecos,” Brison went on, when his information failed to get him the rise he’d expected. “But he insisted that he would mention both our names to the King.”  
“And you’re here to deliver this message to me? I’m impressed.”  
Aramis felt Gautier’s hand on his arm and knew he was going too far. Brison was despicable but still a superior officer. And an efficient one. Nobody would spare a second to even consider favoring Aramis’ life over his if it came to that, no matter de Luynes’ appreciation of his sharpshooting. Yet, he found that he didn’t really care. He’d killed a young man today. Another one. He’d hidden under the leaves and waited, safely concealed from the montébanais’ fire while his comrades faced it, until they finally gave him a chance to blow off a boy’s head. He had every right to be bitter. Maybe he was also a bit tipsy, after two hours sipping bad wine alongside his cheerful companions, but that didn’t change a thing: he hadn’t renounced so many of his values and hopes to easily bow his head to a vicious twat. Brison didn’t seem offended, though. If anything, he looked… scornful. Or perhaps the expression was just the Lieutenant’s default one. Perhaps he was just, for once, glad about something. Perhaps this was his happy face.  
The idea made him laugh.  
 _Yep, definitely tipsy.  
_ Brison ignored both his retort and his attitude.  
“Is that all you have to say about it?” he spat.  
“What do you want me to say? You know I don’t care for honors.”  
“So you keep telling us, although I hoped you wouldn’t turn your nose up at the opportunity to draw the attention of your king. But I guess you’re just a flunkie all the way.”  
“Not everyone craves attention.”  
“Aramis...” Gauthier warned, and he raised a hand in peace. Brison tensed, yet the contemptuous expression didn’t leave his face, and Aramis wasn’t sure whether it was because he believed him or didn’t. Brison was the second son of, as he said, “rough-as-a-badger's-arse’d peasants”. He was, definitely, too clever for his own good, and the only reason he’d joined the military was to attract attention. And he had. Being a lieutenant already, before his thirties, and with such a background, showed anyone still harboring any doubts after having seen him fight that he’d worked to deserve his status. It also probably explained his antipathy for those who displayed less ambition. Aramis, for his part...  
Aramis couldn’t deny that he liked being a soldier. He’d enrolled almost on a whim, on his way back to Herblay, after a particularly bad day grieving for Juste Jules, delaying his return to what passed for his family, and hating himself for having left the Valentins only to turn dawdling into a lifestyle. He’d been in an inn, drinking moderately yet steadily, when some moronic drunk had all but collapsed on his table, spilled his wine and blamed him for the stains on his doublet. When the idiot, deaf to his motions of appeasement, had made the mistake of drawing his gun, he’d killed him on the spot. Seven hours and a very short night later, he was an infantryman in Monsieur de La Roquette’s battalion, and the adventure, so far, hadn’t been his worst. For the first time, he experienced a sense of brotherhood that, as circumstantial as it was, strengthened on necessity. He felt unfettered and unjudged, and it was good.  
He was good at taking risks, good at having his comrades’ backs, and good at killing people.  
It had been a year, he’d lost dozens of companions, a handful of friends and Ebène, to a cannonball that had almost claimed his own life. Months later, the death of his beloved horse still stung, but he regretted nothing.  
He couldn’t regret the feeling that, for once, he fitted in, couldn’t regret the camaraderie, couldn’t regret the thrill of danger… And couldn’t wish he hadn’t been there the day they’d been sent to take a seditious village and he’d abandoned his position to hide an entire family from Caporal Hassler’s cruelty.  
Had he been an officer, his absence would probably have been noticed, and he’d have been shot for his insubordination. He smiled at Brison:  
“Believe me or not,” he finally answered. “I find more freedom in a simple soldier’s life.”  
“Fewer responsibilities, you mean.”  
“Same difference.”  
The Lieutenant snorted, visibly determined to spare himself a longer vain argument.  
“There’s an officer here,” he said. “Some bigwig from Paris. He wants to meet you.”  
Aramis barely raised an eyebrow:  
“Why?”  
“Get off your arse and go find out. I’m not your valet,” Brison snapped, and turned on his heels, apparently expecting Aramis to follow because he took half a dozen steps before looking back and spitting: “The hell are you waiting for?”  
Aramis lifted his cup:  
“Just finishing my wine.”  
That caused Gautier and the other to laugh. Brison seemed to hesitate, but walked back to the fire to confront his insolent subordinate and whisper, his voice still carrying enough to be heard by everyone:  
“You like to come off like nothing can make you flinch, don’t you?” And, when that failed to ignite more than a small smile on Aramis’ face: “But you’re not blasé, Aramis. You like to cloak yourself in your fine principles, you play the hero any chance you get… And you do crave attention. That’s the reason,” he added, waving at Gautier and the others, “why you surround yourself with these lick-spittles. But trust me: even _they_ know who you are.”  
There was a silence, then, a few snickers that, this time, sounded a bit forced. Aramis didn’t cease smiling, and was about to offer the witty retort he was so good at making up out of the blue, regardless of his true feelings. But he was almost relieved when the scream pierced the darkness.

xxxx

“What was that?” Gauthier croaked, and Brison snorted:  
“Another Huguenot sortie. Some kind of retaliation for our little coup, I guess.” Aramis was already on his feet and he added: “What are you gonna do? It’s pitch-black.”  
“That’s not…” Aramis started. “Did you hear…?”  
An instant later, he was tackled, and fighting for his life, face in the dirt. The man above him was heavy, and he barely managed to block the dagger coming to his throat. The blade got his hand instead, and he seized the wrist of his attacker and twisted it. The weapon fell on the ground but his other arm was stuck under his own body and he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried. Fearing the next blow, he resolved to bite the arm that was now attempting to strangle him. He heard a yell, then a cracking sound when he jerked his head back and hit a nose. He jumped to his feet and kicked the hurt man in the face for good measure, then stole his pistol and slipped it in his belt, alongside his.  
The place was chaos. Despite the weak light, he made out Brison fighting like a devil, and Gauthier on the ground, still moving. The attackers were not many, and reinforcements were coming, yet the silent attack had already taken its toll on their little camp. Aramis counted three bodies at least, dead or incapacitated, before rushing to the aid of Cartier. The man was a veteran who could stand up to most of them in a swordfight but here, in the night, taken off guard and facing two younger opponents, his endurance was quickly failing him. Aramis took on the larger assailant, stabbing him in the back before he knew he was attacked. It was odd, how the noble principles you were taught all your life to follow utterly vanished on a battlefield. There were other codes, though. New rules. New tolerances and disapproval. New behaviors to display. Laws of morality were completely reshuffled, but that was the officers’ problems. Simple soldiers were just supposed to kill as many enemies as they could, try to stay alive, and obey orders.  
Or, for the last part and in Aramis’ case, pretend they did and hope nobody would find out otherwise.  
Cartier shot him a grateful look as he finally regained the upper hand over his attacker, and Aramis noticed another assailant about to strike the back of a man he didn’t know, big as an ox. He barely had the time to shoot him before being tackled again.  
Almost. He saw the shadow of the enemy before it collided with him – hard, and he locked his knees, avoiding another fall but not a searing pain when one of his ribs cracked. Only a quick step back saved him from a blade coming out of nowhere, and he barely blocked a second hit as he engaged with this new attacker.  
Aramis had been in many fights before, still he felt like this one would never end. And it was odd, he found himself in the mood to muse, because it had been quite a while since he’d been in a duel, but the brevity of those multiple confrontations seemed longer than his last assault of the fortress. He was drained, a bit lightheaded, and barely blocked a blow when his vision swam.  
He fell on his backside and raised his sword to the man facing him, but not really aiming at anything. The hostile blade brushed his and he contemplated its momentum as it barely missed stabbing into his shoulder.  
 _What’s happening to me?  
_ Everything was a daze. The deformed figures and dancing firelight reminded him of when he was a kid, playing at scanning his surroundings through one of his father’s brandy bottles. The man above him lifted his sword…  
 _Above?  
_ He was on his back.  
“Look out!”  
Aramis blinked quickly, or believed he did, but when he reopened his eyes he was alone.  
Wait… not “alone”. There were noises all around but nobody still threatening him. He raised his head and, when that failed to give him a better comprehension of his situation, let it fall back. It was rather comfortable, here.  
“.. me? Y’hear me?”  
 _What?  
_ He blinked again.  
“He’s alive!”  
 _Of course I’m alive,_ he wanted to retort, but only managed to think. There was a new person above him. A non-threatening one, it seemed. Deep voice. Broad shoulders. Dark skin. Blurry face.  
“Hold on, mate!”  
 _Hold on to what?  
_ “Call a medic!”  
“Shit!” someone – Brison? yelled. “Gautier, move your lazy arse and get Doctor Rémy! Now!”  
“I can’t stop the bleeding!”  
“Take this! Press it on the wound!”  
“You’ll be fine, mate. Hold on, hey? You’re doing great!”  
The deep voice seemed pretty intent on comforting him, but Aramis wasn’t afraid. Actually, he felt okay. His rib didn’t hurt anymore, and the fight was apparently over. Gautier was alive, as far as he knew, and the fuss around him was evidence enough that they’d won.  
“Hey! Don’t go to sleep!”  
 _I’m not.  
_ “What’s your name, pal? Hey!”  
 _For God’s sake! What?  
_ “What’s your name?”  
“‘rmis. Aramis.”  
“Nice to meet you, Aramis. I’m…”  
“Can’t find the Doctor!”  
“Shit! Okay, never mind. We’ll carry him.”  
“He’ll bleed to death!”  
“Do you have a better plan?”  
“I…”  
All this agitation was a bit overwhelming. Aramis had difficulties seeing, now, and really wished for an understandable soundscape.  
 _Don’t panic,_ he wanted to tell everyone fussing around him. _It doesn’t help and, besides…  
_ “‘m fine.”  
“Sure you are.”  
“Okay, you ready?”  
 _Ready for wh...  
_ Something seized his shoulders and pulled them up. He tried to yell – and maybe succeeded – and struggled – that he failed.  
“Hold him tight!”  
 _Get off me! It hurts!_  
It hurt.  
It hurt like Hell and he had no idea where, or why, or…  
“Now, on the count of three… One, two...”  
He only had time to hear...  
“Three!”  
Then the deep voice ringing again…  
“I’m not leaving you,” it said.  
Then the world became a bright white.  
Then nothing.

xxxx

 

À suivre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the last Act! Only three (already written) chapters to go and this fic will officially be over! Aramis is in a bad place right now, but don’t worry, the light at the end of this tunnel is nearer than it has ever been! :)  
> Most historical details in this chapter, from the Duc de Luynes and the King (20 at the time) working on their strategies in the castle of Piquecos, to the coincidences the montébanais saw as divine interventions, along with the number of men on each side and the villages that were taken before besieging the city, are true. My description of how to take down a sharpshooter defending a stronghold, however, *might* be approximate at best.


	15. Chapter 15

“So you’re a soldier, now,” Juste Jules stated.

“I am.”

“How’s it going?”

“Well… Fine, I suppose.”

“Have you improved your swordsmanship?”

“I…”

“Sorry, sorry. Am I too blunt? I never was before. Always shy and cautious. Didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but mine. And boy! Did they get hurt!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You, on the other hand, grew up pretty quiet.”

“...”

“Anyway. That’s something I wish I’d done more: speaking my mind. Not constantly worry about everyone else’s… fragilities. It’s easy to say now that I’m… here, obviously. You don’t have much to lose in my condition. Still, Nicole was right. Not about my ability to make my dreams come true, however… well, maybe about that, too. But I meant about me not taking stupid risks. I did. I can see it now. It’s not that I was too reckless, like you both. it’s that I never managed to work out which risks were worth it. For example...”

“You spoke your mind.”

“... when I didn’t… I’m sorry?”

“You… You did speak your mind. You were cautious, yes, but you were always honest.”

“You think so.”

“I know so. I remember your last words to me.”

“Mmm… Got to give you that. But I didn’t believe I had much to lose at the time either.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“It didn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“Far less than falling off a cliff with a hole in my arm.”

“Hehe. Always the funny one, even at death’s door.”

“Am I dying?”

“I’m not sure. You talking to me in a white void tends to say yes.”

“It’s not the first time that I see you in my dreams.”

“Fair enough. Was it flattering, then?”

“...”

“Focus, mate, or you won’t last much longer. Me confessing my love for you. Was it flattering?”

“That’s not really… Yes. Yes it was, actually, but that’s not what I meant when I said I was glad that you did. You told me… Back then, you told me it was a privilege to have been my friend…”

“You remember…”

“Of course I do! I’m still not sure I deserve the compliment, but...”

_ “Aramis?” _

“But?”

“But it was an honor, for me, to be loved…”

_ “Aramis. Can you hear me?” _

“What was that?”

“Someone’s calling for you.”

“I get that, but who…”

“Apparently, your new pals believe you shouldn’t cross this bridge yet.”

“I… I can’t hear them anymore.”

“Well, that can’t be good. Want to talk s’m’more?”

“...”

“Or I can leave, if you prefer. Would make things easier.”

“No! And what do you mean ‘easier’? Good Lord, Juste Jules! I grieved for you!”

“Did you cry?”

“You know I don’t. But there’s not a single day… It  _was_ an honor. To be loved by you. It really was. Don’t make that face. Why can’t you trust me? I grieved for you, and I tried to be there for Nicole and the others, I… It’s true! You understand why I had to leave!”

“I think I do. Doesn’t make it any less running away.”

“I was running away the day I met you. I never pretended I would stay forever. In fact, I specifically said I wouldn’t. You can blame me for many things, my friend. You can tell me that I was blind to your feelings, and Nicole’s, that I fooled myself about Isabelle, and keep fleeing even now, hiding here, rather risking taking a bullet than accepting an inheritance that… all but fell into my lap, as if I wasn’t aware of all this! But you can’t say that I was deceitful. I was there, for all of you, as you were for me, as long as we were together. I wanted to be one of the Valentins, I thought you were my family, but...”

_ “Aramis…” _

“So it’s our fault, then.”

“No!

_ “Aramis!” _

_ “Is he moving?” _

_ “I’m not sure. I saw… Aramis! If you hear me, press my hand.” _

“Poor Aramis! Having to deal with two people falling in love with him!”

“Stop it! All the time we were together, I tried, and I didn’t always succeed, but I gave you what was in my power to give. I risked my life when I had to, and it was not enough, in the end, but… You know, I  _did_ improve my swordsmanship after I... lost you.”

“Well, I’m glad for your next best friend.”

“You’re not Juste Jules.”

_ “Yes! Come on. Open your eyes!” _

“You sound tired. And of course I am.”

“You’re not. Juste Jules was kind and considerate. He did speak his mind, but he was never cruel.”

_ “Wake up, Aramis!” _

“As if you ever knew me.”

“I noticed your love. Just misread its nature. And I’m sorry I didn’t do it justice. I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations, I’m sorry I spent hours talking to you about Isabelle, or the girls I bedded, and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save you. Yet I did love you back. I loved you with all my heart... I’ll never forget you, but…”

_ “He’s awake?” _

_ “Aramis! Come on, mate!” _

“But It’s not… Oh, God, what’s happening? I... hurt. It’s not… It’s not...”

“It’s not...?”

_ “Come on!” _

“It’s not my fault that you died.”

“...”

“Good Lord, that hurts so much!”

“That’s the price when you chose to live.”

“You are not Juste Jules. But I’m glad I got to speak to you one more time.” 

xxxx

Aramis’ eyes were open but he couldn’t see anything. The world was white and dazed, a cacophony of sound and light, and it hurt, and it  _stank_!

It stank like blood and shit and old sweat, and it was disgusting, and he would have thrown up if the cramps in his stomach had made the thing possible.

“‘mis… Aramis?”

“I…”

“You hear me? Hey! Doc! He’s awake!”

_ God! Don’t shout! _

“Don’t…”

“Scoot away, son. Aramis? Can you hear me?”

Aramis blinked furiously against the frustrating muddle of sensations and had only time to make out a bearded face before being overwhelmed again.

“Yes?” he answered.

His voice sounded like an old man’s.

“How do you feel?”

“Hurt… Hot…”

So hot! Good Lord, he felt on fire! A hand landed on his forehead and he almost shivered from its cold.

“You’re still feverish, but I believe you beat the worst of it.”

“Thirsty…”

“You! Lad! Fetch me a glass of water, please. Fantastic.”

The hand slipped under his neck, this time, and he had to fight the urge to escape from its grab.

“You’re okay, son. ‘Tis just water.”

He knew that, but everything was so confusing… He hated not being aware of his surroundings, or in control of his body, and the former were a blur and the latter a sweaty mess of pain. Still, the tepid liquid on his tongue was bliss, and he swallowed avidly.

“Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick.”

_ I’m sick already,  _ he mused, and took the poor joke as a sign of his brain regaining its faculties.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Montauban?”

“Perfect. You’ve been… Hey, you hear me?”

He wasn’t sure. How did he end up... and how long had he been here?

There had been… an attack. They were drinking and chatting pleasantly, then something annoying… Brison. And after that…

“Gautier!”

“Hey!”

Moisture on his chest, then pressure. He fought it.

“Stay still, boy. You’re not…

“Where’s Gautier?”

_ And what are you doing? Let me go! _

“You’re goin’ to rip your stitches out. Don’t… You! What are you waiting for? Help m… Ow!”

Some part of Aramis’ brain was aware that his… opponent meant well. There was concern in this blunt voice. But he wouldn’t be restrained. Not when he didn’t know where he was and why he hurt, and with his friend maybe fighting for his life…

“Dammit! Did he break my n...? Hey! Stop him!”

A brighter light, just in front of him. A door? He made for it but his feet got caught in something. The world tilted.

Or he believed it did, because of the vertigo, but he didn’t see... Suddenly, there were arms around him, stronger ones. Ones he wasn’t sure he could fight even if he wasn’t so weak and his side didn’t hurt so much.

“Let me go!”

“Calm down. Aramis… Aramis, listen to me!”

It was a roar, this voice. But, somehow, more soothing than the previous one. Aramis fell his knees buckle and the arms tightening around him and gently accompanying him down.

“Gautier…”

“He’s alive. Took a bullet in the leg but it went through. He’ll be back fighting Huguenots in no time.”

That was… good. Almost enough to let go. He was tired.

“And Juste Jules?”

“Who?”

God, he was so tired! He wanted to push on. To tell them about the strongman. That he was still up the cliff and they had to send someone or he’d bleed to death.

“Saved my life…” he started, but he was so heavy.

“Just sleep, mate. You’ll be fine. You’ve already done the hardest.”

“I… Don’t feel so good...”

The answer to that sounded quite amused, but he couldn’t make out the words. The noises, that had been the only distinct thing sharp until that point, were becoming as mixed up as the rest. Aramis closed his eyes and, finally, sagged against the reassuring arms. He felt himself drift, and a part of him wanted to resist but the voice was still there, soothing and faithful, until the dreams overcame him again. 

xxxx

The next time Aramis woke, he felt considerably more relaxed and composed. His side still hurt, but the sensation was diffuse, like a pounding headache. It was dark in the tent, yet the rising sun - it must have been dawn because he remembered the medical quarters facing east - swept through gap by the door left ajar He tried to rise on his forearms but couldn’t hold back a yelp when a blaze of pain blossomed along the whole left of his body. Someone groaned, and a drowsy voice grumbled:

“Shut up!”

Before he could turn his head in the direction of this rude fellow, there was a hand on his shoulder. Doctor Rémy.

“You stay put,” he said, and Aramis wondered what he’d done to deserve that tone when fragmented memories of waking up feverish and running after Juste Jules came back to him.

“I…” he started, then took a second to collect himself. “How long?” he asked after a breath.

“Four days. You remember what happened?”

“I shot a boy.”

Rémy raise a brow and pushed on:

“Is that all?”

_ Isn’t that enough? _  He wanted to snap, but didn’t. The old doctor was a veteran who’d been on almost every major battlefield since the current king’s father. He’d seen enough, and saved enough lives, to be allowed some level of irreverence.

“We were attacked,” he finally answered. “I… passed out?”

“Obviously, but not before taking down two enemies and repelling another with a stab wound two inches below your heart. If I were given to making compliments, I would tell you I’m impressed. As a medic, though, I must ask what the hell you were thinking.”

“I didn’t really…” Aramis started, and the Doctor snorted. “I didn’t know I’d been stabbed!” he protested. “I thought I’d only cracked a rib.”

“Another reason to come and work with me more often. No student of mine would shame me with such an error in judgement.”

It was Aramis’ turn to want to laugh, even if  _he_ made the effort to suppress it. He was hardly Rémy’s student. Only helped him stitch some wounds and, apparently displayed enough talent thereby to have the man constantly on his back. He’d been in the tent a couple of times, consequently, and learned a little of the art but, after his promotion, between his duties in the camp, the multiple assaults, and his numerous missions as a sharpshooter, never managed to devote to it the perseverance it deserved.

“How’s Gautier? And how many died?” he asked, just to change the subject. He remembered someone telling him his friend was healing, but this memory, too, was a bit hazy.

“Six of us were killed,” Rémy answered. “Eight wounded, that’s included you, and two are already cleared. We’re not crowded here, as you can see,” he added with a wave at the blissfully half-empty infirmary. It had been a month with no sign of an epidemic, and Aramis prayed every day, with little hope, that the plagues that had taken more of them than the cannonballs had would never return. “Gautier is fine and fit….Or will be in a couple of days. A real pain in my arse in the meantime, if you must know, but at least, he didn’t almost break my schnoz chasing an imaginary friend.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’ve was a bit confused after… fighting off an infection, apparently,” Aramis retorted, suddenly aware of the way his scar burned under the bandages. He looked more closely at the doctor’s face. There was a bruise, on his left cheek, that he hadn’t noticed before. “Does it hurt?”

“I’ll live. Now. Let me check your wound.”

He tried to relax while Rémy cautiously removed the cloth, yet still couldn’t help but wince when it stuck to his flesh.

“I figured you were  crow's feed , y’know? When they brought you here,” the Doctor blurted, and Aramis, this time, ostensibly rolled his eyes. “The depth of the stabbing, the location… and  _dirty_. Took me ‘bout two hours to make sure you wouldn’t bleed to death, and then I spent a fortune of draughts and ointments on you. Was worth it, I guess. You’re kind of my masterpiece.”

“I’m… flattered,” Aramis tried. “And thank you.” He knew that this rambling was meant to divert his attention away from the pain, and it worked. Sort of. You couldn’t forget a wound like this, but… “Ouch!” he protested when the man touched the red flesh.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Stop poking at it!”

“Well, you’ll be fine, it seems. That is, if you refrain from running around. Think you can do that?”

To be honest, Aramis wouldn’t have bet on it. He hadn’t often been bedridden, but it had never gone well. There’d been the time at the brothel, when he’d caught a simple cold and almost turned it into pneumonia by dint of escaping the girls’ vigilance. Or when he’d knocked his head falling from a tree in Herblay, and nearly broke his skull passing out after trying to prove he was fine. He wasn’t certain how long it would take to fully heal a still-infected stab wound, but it would without a doubt exceed his patience.

“Sure,” he answered anyway. Then, because he knew how much Rémy wanted to share his art with him: “That will allow me to study with you at last.”

“Do you take me for an imbecile, boy?”

“I…”

“You won’t study shit till you can stand on your own, and you’ll try to stand on your own when I say you can. In the meantime, you’ll sleep, read or annoy your new friend with that incessant babbling of yours, I don’t care, but…”

_ What new friend?  _ Aramis wanted to ask, but the Doctor carried on: “Here he is! You’re early, boy!”

Aramis turned his head in the direction of the door and, blinking against the now blazing light, made out a tall figure in the entrance.

“Couldn’t sleep,” it said. “Robert’s snoring like a pregnant sow.”

That voice. Deep, gruff yet soothing…

And that face…

“I’ll leave you two then,” Rémy decided. “Try to keep him in this bed. Sit on him if you have to. Knock him out if he gets too troublesome.”

“You can count on me, Doc.”

The doctor went back to his other duties and the newcomer took his place on a stool near the cot Aramis was lying on. About his age, dark-skinned… This close, he seemed even taller and more broad-shouldered than before, and his sharp look spoke of high intelligence. A large scar crossed his left eye, the eyeball intact, and Aramis could guess by his demeanour that, despite his youth, there were many more, physical or mental he couldn’t say. His face was gentle, though, if tense, now that Aramis noticed, and he realized he might take his staring the wrong way.

There were not many men of color in the French army. Those Aramis had met were relegated to the dirtier and most dangerous positions, and thanked with rejection when it wasn’t plain insults.

“I… You...” he started, but felt at loss for words. Was this the soldier who’d tried to save him at the camp? The same who’d restrained him when he’d woken up delirious? He was sitting there, apparently not sure what to say now that his charge was conscious, and not helped by his stammering.

“I know you,” Aramis settled on. “Your voice. You were there before.”

The man’s face brightened.

“Oh. I’m glad you remember.”

“Have you been at my bedside the whole time?”

“Well, no, I… I volunteered to give Doctor Rémy a hand after the attack. Several were wounded but you were the one savin’ my life, so…”

“Was I?”

“So I’ve been told. You disappeared as soon as you downed the guy. To be clear, I killed the bloke who tried to end you when you were down, and I did slow your bleedin’, so one could say that I paid my debt.”

Aramis wasn’t sure what to make of this mix of affability and bluntness. The man seemed both happy to be of help and adamant that he wasn’t.

“Well, I thank you,” he settled on, for lack of anything better.

“Don’t mention it.”

“And I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The man looked confused.

“I mean… before. Things are a bit hazy, but, apparently, Doctor Rémy has me to thank for his bruise, so…”

There was a hint of a smile on the dark face. A smile that, if Aramis hadn’t lost his ability to read people, spelled out ‘As if you could!’ He grinned in turn:

“I’m usually not that weak.”

“Still.”

“Well, I’m glad you were never at risk, then.”

“I could teach you how to get free of that kind of hold, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“So it’s a deal. You stay in that bed until the good doctor clears you, and I’ll show you.”

Aramis opened his mouth, then closed it to reconsider his retort:

“Or…” he tried. “We could start when I feel fit, and I’ll give you shooting lessons in exchange.”

“What makes you think I need any?”

“I’m the best sharpshooter here.  _Everyone_ needs my tips.”

“Well, in that case I’ll have to trade another of my tricks for that. In the meantime, you’ll rest. That will give you the time to prepare your lessons.”

There was a pause, then, and Aramis decided he could grow fond of this man, and that, along with his tiredness, was the reason why he didn’t bargain longer. He smiled again:

“My dear friend, I feel like we understand each other.”

“Oh we do,” the man huffed. “And you won’t fool me like you do everyone else.” He reached out to shake his hand. “Name’s Porthos, by the way.”

xxxx

Porthos did understand him.

They spent the morning chatting, until Aramis felt his eyelids drop and his new friend all but ordered him to sleep.

“I’ll try to be there when you wake up,” he assured.

“Thanks, mom.”

“And don’t be a smartass.”

In the afternoon, Doctor Remy changed his bandages again, and Porthos reappeared with a bowl of broth. Aramis winced.

“You’ll have somethin’ more substantial if you can keep it down. Doctor says what’s important is to keep you hydrated.”

As he sipped the tasteless liquid, they resumed their conversation as if they hadn't been interrupted. Porthos told him about his childhood in Paris. How he hadn't known his father and his mother killed herself at work, at the Court of Miracles, no matter how much his son managed to steal for her. Aramis who, in spite of having spent three years some fifteen miles away, had never set foot in the capital, listened religiously, with a mixture of sympathy and excitement, and ended up relating his own life. The brothel, his father, his troubled stay at Herblay… then Bruneau and the Valentin, and Juste Jules, his guilt, despite his new certainty that the strongman didn’t die by his fault. “But I still wasn’t able to save him,” he insisted, and Porthos didn’t try to reason him out of it. He just listened, and told him more about his own regrets. The situation reminded him of his first chat with Nicole, yet, this time, there was nothing behind the exchange of confidences and banter. No uncertainty, no expectations... It was odd, he mused, to meet someone and feel like he’d known him all his life. But, he mentally amended, he’d fooled himself enough in the past, assigning feelings to people who didn’t share them. Perhaps it was just because of the similarities in their stories that he was so trustful of Porthos. Or maybe he was still fragile and that made him a bit sentimental.

At some point, Gauthier limped from his cot to his and joined the party, and entertained them with his own anecdotes. Porthos seemed wary, at the beginning, but, with the help of Aramis’ easygoing nature, rapidly relaxed. It was late in the afternoon when Doctor Rémy came and all but threw his new assistant out, complaining that he took up a lot of place and tired his patients. “If you’re not doing anything here, go make yourself useful outside!” Aramis grinned at Gautier who gave out a small snort. After a moment of silence, the older soldier groaned and used both hands to reposition his leg in front of him.

“You should lie down,” Aramis advised.

“Says the man who volunteered to help the good doctor with his chest open and a fever going on.”

“You’re not supposed to follow my bad example. And I’m not feverish anymore.”

“You are. Your eyes are still shiny.” Aramis initiated a flirtatious smile but Gautier would have none of it.

“s’not a joke. You almost died, you idiot.”

“No one feels worse about it than I do, my friend.”

Gautier barely sighed.

“The officer’s back in Paris, y’know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The officer. The Parisian bigwig Brison was talking about when we were attacked.”

It took Aramis a moment to get his memories back. Maybe Gautier was right. He was still sick and the conversation hadn’t helped.

“Yes,” he said finally. “There was a man who wanted to talk to me. But I have no idea why.”

“No one does, but he said he’ll be back. That’s what Brison told us anyway, and I don’t see why he would make up a story in your favor.”

“And I thought I was so loved,” Aramis yawned. He was more curious about the mysterious officer than he cared to admit, but his exhaustion was slowly taking over. Gautier seemed to notice, since he patted his thigh and made it to get up.

“Have some sleep. You need it.”

Aramis contemplated protesting on principle, but the simple act of resting his head on his pillowed was enough to have him off in a light doze. He heard Gautier moving, and exchanging words with Rémy, before sinking again into a fevered dream.

The next days of his recovery were much like the first. He chatted with Gautier and Porthos, then the former was sent back to his duties, and that left the two new friends resuming their getting to know each other. The idleness was not as much a burden as Aramis had dreaded, at least in the beginning. He had another fever fit, less debilitating than before, but that left him drained all the same. The pain it his side didn’t seem to lessen and, for the first time, he wondered how close he’d been to losing his life. He’d been around death before, but never so helpless, and the retroactive fear wasn’t as easy to dismiss as he’d liked. Thankfully, Porthos did his best to keep him out his own mind. It was five days after his waking that two stretcher-bearers brought in a man with a bloody mess in lieu of a leg. Aramis was on his feet immediately, or tried to before his friend got up in turn and grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing!” he protested, his voice not as convincing as he’d intended. The wave of vertigo that had seized him was barely receding, and the mans’ hold might have been the only thing keeping him upright. Porthos had the kindness not to mention it:

“Let the medics do their job.”

Aramis sat back reluctantly and tried to watch, but everyone had retreated behind a drawn curtain. It was not long before the wounded man woke up with a cry that became a series of harrowing screams, accompanied by the unmistakable scratching of a saw. Aramis winced and redirected his attention on Porthos. He was met with a surprising sight.

“A… Are you okay?”

The man was white as a sheet.

Porthos didn’t answer but breathed shallowly and muttered in his beard something that sounded quite like “almost over.”

“What was that?”

“Nothin’”

“You can’t stomach it, can you?” Aramis realized incredulously.

“Don’t be absurd. I’m a soldier.”

Porthos seemed quite offended, and he sobered up.

“It’s not the same thing,” he tried more gently. “And it’s okay to feel. If anything, it shows your good heart.”

“Well,” Porthos grumbled. “I’d rather you don’t blather ‘bout my good heart in front of the rest of the troop. I have a… reputation to maintain.”

“Sure,” Aramis smiled, and they let the silence settle between them, until the cries died out. When Rémy pushed back the curtain, his arms and lap full of blood, he exchanged a glance with Aramis.

_ So far so good,  _ it said. The operation had been quick, a key factor in the success of an amputation. But the sharpshooter knew that the wounded man had few chances anyway. If he survived the bleeding, the infection would take over.

Again, he recognized how lucky he’d been. That, and...

He turned his gaze to Porthos, who was still silent and looking rather queasy. This time, he didn’t suppress his smile.

“What?” the big man asked.

“You stayed because of me.”

“What?” his friend repeated, now confused.

“You can’t stand it here. You hate it, but you stayed anyway. For my sake.”

“You wish I did!”

“That’s adorable!”

“Shut it!” Porthos huffed, but he was laughing.

They spent the rest of the hour in pleasant discussion, and Aramis was even authorized to try out his legs a bit. Porthos was almost on his way out leave when a young soldier entered, a missive in his hands. He talked to one of Rémy’s aides, who pointed at Aramis, and made his way to the cot.

“Monsieur d’Herblay?” he asked, and Porthos raise a brow.

“Aramis,” Aramis corrected.

“Aramis. I have a letter for you.”

Aramis took it and thanked the lad before eyeing the envelope, a bit lost.

It was Marie’s writing.

“I’ll leave you alone.” Porthos said.

“You don’t have to,” he answered, opening the thing and starting to read before his friend had time to do more than rise from his stool.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Aramis realized he’d let out a small gasp.

“I…” he began. “Yes, I… I think so. It’s just that…” He stopped to steady his voice. He was okay, he decided. He definitely was. Surprised, is all. He took a breath. “I’m fine,” he assured again. “But my father’s dead.”

xxxx

À suivre.

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- The names I chose for Aramis' brothers and sister are actually those of the father (Charles) uncle (Phébus) and aunt (Marie) of Henri d'Aramitz, the real musketeer who inspired Dumas to create the character of Aramis.  
> \- Herblay is a small town, northwest of Paris. Aramitz (now spelled Aramits, and Aramis for the purpose of this story) is a village, about 50 km (30 miles) from the Spanish border.  
> \- Ébène, Aramis' mare's name, is French for "ebony".  
> \- The title is from Jeremiah 29:11: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." I thought a Bible quote was appropriate for a story about Aramis :)  
> \- This story was originally published on ffnet. There are already five chapters there, but my writing is delayed by a big job. So, I'll post one chapter every ten days or so here, until I catch up. Then, I'll try to write a new one every two or three weeks :)


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